


Dark Lands

by Anwyn, Spiced_Wine



Series: Dark Prince ~ The Darkness Has Its Own Light [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings (Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Horror, Multi, Non Consensual, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 70
Words: 127,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anwyn/pseuds/Anwyn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vanimórë journeys south with Elgalad to a rich, corrupt city on the coast of Far Harad, where an ancient darkness has the ruler under its hand. Death and madness unfold about Sauron's son; he was made Vala in the Bath of Flame, yet this old evil will flee from power, and Vanimórë is forced to endure slavery once more as he seeks to discover what dwells upon the Isle of Plagues.</p><p>
  <i>"We tempered thee as as a smith makes the finest sword, Vanimórë, with heat and hammer blows."</i>
</p><p>Dark Lands is the sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/10082">Dark Prince</a> and is a collaboration between myself and <a href="http:"></a>Anwyn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The Light Of A New Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Rated M for M/M slash, incest, violence, graphic sex, rape (het and slash) and horror.  
> The lands and cities referred to in Dark Lands, Dark Blood and Dark God, with the exception of New Cuiviénen, are © to the [](http:)Lindëfirion site, who permit their maps to be used if credit is given. I thank them for their wonderful work.
> 
> [](http:)Child of Storms by Anwyn is the back story on Anwyn, Princess of Dol Amroth, and her acquaintanceship with Vanimórë and Elgalad is part of that story.
> 
> Disclaimer: I merely borrow from the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. My stories are written purely for pleasure, and no money is made from them. However the original characters of Vanimórë Gorthaurion, Elgalad Meluion and Tindómion Maglorion, the Dark Prince AU of Tolkiens universe, and the plotlines are © to Sian Lloyd-Pennell. 2004-2009 and may not be used, archived or reproduced without my permission. Anwyn is © to Bayley Jackson.

 

 

 

                                                                 

 

 

  
~ A quiet, still morning; threshold of a new Age.

A cock crowed, somewhere a door banged and a dog barked, a redbreast called from a bare branch, the scent of new baked bread mingled with the sharp aroma of dawn. The sun rose in a flaming ember globe until it vanished behind high cloud, leaving a cool, windless winter day.

Could there be any place more simple to begin his new life Vanimórë wondered, as he closed the leaded casement. A small town called Bree, an inn, an unpretentious room where in the bed, the Elf he had risked everything to bring back to life, slept in the complete relaxation of trust.

He had laid a touch of power very gently on Elgalad's mind, no more than a breath. He had to be careful. He did not truly know what he could do as yet, and wanted Elgalad to sleep, (_Liar. My father once said I was a better liar than he. That is not what I wanted at all._) while he sat before the hearth and told over in his mind all that had happened. When he noticed the fire was dying down to sullen red embers, he lifted a hand, tapped the stream of Power within his mind. The flames leaped up in hungry red tongues.

So much to learn.

He left the room and went down the creaking wooden stairs, finding a curly headed Hobbit, and asked for mulled wine, cold meat, fresh bread and fruit. He carried the tray up the stairs himself, smiling away the Hobbit's protests, and set it down. Wisps of fragrant steam curled from the brass jug, and he poured and drank, then set the cup down and silently crossed to the bed.

Elgalad's hair was a pale cloud over the pillows, half hiding his serene face . A blanket had slipped to show one shoulder.

_I killed him. I almost lost him._

The horror of that moment thudded through him again.

_ He spun, on reflex...  
Elgalad sank to his knees ''Do n-not leave m-me again...'' Words forced through clogging blood...the terrible noises of a plea for air..._

Didst thou ever...love..me?

Then Elgalad died and madness took him. He would never otherwise have attempted what he had and of course, without aid, he would have died himself. He had been guided and guarded by Eru, whom had moved those he chose into position to effect what had happened after.

_Glorfindel and I..._  
It made sense. Glorfindel had lived two lives, knew the sorrows of his people, knew what they desired and needed.

_And I...?_

_ I will go south, far south to the shores of the Straits of the World, lands that I never visited as Sauron's Slave._

His eyes dropped again to Elgalad, feeling as if he had brought something indescribably precious out of danger. But had he brought him only into greater danger?

_I am more perilous than he knows, and I would be without any power. I cannot set my fingerprints all over him. _

Elgalad's firm lips looked velvet-soft, his lashes thick as as fan above the grey eyes which were glass-blank in slumber.

_Eru, thou hast given him unto me, and I may not touch him...! But, oh! I could show him what heat lies under his sweetness and his courage...!_

Elgalad blinked. His eyes opened wide, and shocked realization entered them: memory, pain and relief intermingled. His fingers felt his throat, then rose to Vanimórë's cheek. The gesture was so touching that he bent his head to kiss the lovely mouth.  
It was supposed to convey reassurance, but it was more than that. It would always be more. Running fire coursed within him as Elgalad's lips parted under his. He raised himself into the kiss, which deepened into passion, wilder than Vanimórë imagined. Elgalad pushed aside the coverlets, and their bodies met hungrily. One naked, one fully clothed, they tumbled down on the bed. The glide of the silken skin under his fingers, the slip of the hair over them, blasted an inferno through Vanimórë. They were fully aroused, and he felt the rigid and aching tension in Elgalad as he molded himself closer, seeking any release for his need, writhing against the iron hard muscles.

''I n-need thee...'' he arched against Vanimórë's body. Hard arms locked around him, and they moved together in a primal hunger until both broke in an explosion of pleasure, though flesh had not even touched against flesh.

Tremors shook through Elgalad as he sank back, lashes fluttering shut, his breath coming in gasps. He felt himself enfolded close and clung to Vanimórë, his heart pounding like a forge hammer.

''Peace, my dear.''

''I n-need thee.'' His mouth moved blindly over Vanimórë's warm throat. ''Take m-me. I want t-to feel thee within m-me, I w-want to be thine !''

''And I want thee.'' Vanimórë rose and watched as Elgalad opened his eyes and reached out. Cursing in an undervoice, raking back his hair, he said:  
''I cannot. I would destroy thee.''

''Never. I trust th-thee.'' Elgalad looked so desirable that Vanimórë felt himself grow hard again. Something in his eyes must have communicated his hunger, for Elgalad whispered: "Please."

''No. It is not that I do not want thee ! I could take thee now, but I fear what I would do, not to thy body, but thy soul.'' He poured wine, sat down on the edge of the bed.  
''Drink,'' his voice softened as he ran his hand through Elgalad's disheveled hair. ''I do love thee, and oh Hells, I do want thee, but I have to be so very careful. Thou art wanton, but so sweet. What would be left but the long fall in blackness if I extinguished that?''

''Thou c-canst not. I was m-made for thee, I was born f-for thee ! Do I not p-please thee?''

''Too much.'' H smiled,drank off the wine and glanced down at his clothes, damp from Elgalad's release. He was stunned at the passion his gentle-eyed Meluion had exhibited.

''I am s-sorry.'' Mortified, Elgalad ducked his head, and Vanimórë tilted it back up.

''I almost took thee. I did not realize it would be so hard to withhold, but I wanted thee to feel some pleasure.''

Elgalad's face glowed. ''I d-did. But I still want th-thee.''

''If thou doth look at me like that, thou wilt test me beyond what even I can endure, beauty,'' Vanimórë growled. ''Eat, and then we must talk. I wanted thee to rest last night, but I must tell thee everything that happened, and then we should leave.''

''We? Thou w-wilt take m-me with thee?''

''Thou art mine.'' At the smile which lit the beautiful face, he shook Elgalad gently. Who laughed with soft delight.  
''Forever.'' And privately, he said to himself.  
_And I hope, Meluion, that thou wilt never regret it. _

~~~

The great ships crested the surged and swell of the ocean like dancers, Teleri swan-ships, this time freely given to those who chose to depart Aman. Dolphins leaped before the vessels boughs in playful curves, and the wind was in the sails as if the Valar sent it to speed their passage away from Valinor.

Glorfindel looked back at the receding shore, the fleet of white sails which followed the lead ship, then turned his face east. There were warriors of his house here, their families. Fëanor, in a somewhat unexpected moment of empathy, had chosen to sail with his other sons and give Maglor and Tindómion this time alone.  
Time was something they did have now.  
Gil-galad had likewise gone with his father and Fingolfin. Ecthelion was with his own House.

Legolas was standing in a whipping cloud of pale hair and as Glorfindel crossed to him, he glanced around with a strange expression, which only eased when Glorfindel smiled.

"I am still Glorfindel," the comment, the smile, were wry.

"But not that alone, are you?"

"No," the new-made Vala admitted. "But some things do not change. Come. I will have wine brought to my cabin. This will be a long voyage after all."

Legolas' eyes burned up, but he paused. "Glorfindel, what of Elgalad? Will he be safe?"

"As safe as any-one would be with Vanimórë. As safe as thou wilt be – with me." ~

~~~

  



	2. With Nought But Thee And Freedom

  
~ ...''My one thought was to hold the Valar to ransom, to demand they give thee back thy life. But when have they ever cared for those who love, who suffer and die?'' Vanimórë's mouth curled in contempt. ''I did not trust them, so I thought of the one thing that might rouse them - not a beloved soul, but an artifact of power, something that carried the Fate of Arda within it: a Silmaril." He felt Elgalad's shining eyes on him. There was awe and love in the lucent gray.  
''I was mad with grief. The only one ever in all my long years who loved me, even knowing that I served evil, and I killed thee. I did not mean to – but perhaps even that was fore-ordained...'' He drew his fingers down the high-boned face. ''But I knew the Silmaril was not for me to bear or wear. I knew so much, saw so much..."

Knowledge had reeled through his mind like a thunder, a flood.

''What w-was it l-like, the Bath of F-Flame?'' Elgalad whispered.

''It was pure power. Eru's power. I gave thee back life, and the One allowed it, for thou art my....curb-chain, Elgalad.''

He put the wine aside and rose. It was full daylight now, and the inn-yard was busy. He looked from the small window for a moment.

"Glorfindel is the Vala for the Elves, appointed solely to them, and for them. He will lead them far to the East. In the rising of two Suns all is changed, and so yet few know it; the world will go on its course. And we – " He turned back. ''There was always good and evil, Meluion. But the One does not desire me to become another Morgoth Bauglir or Sauron. I could follow that path, but as long as I love, I will not. But not even Fos Almir can take away my life, just as it will not cause Glorfindel to forget his. He will be a good Vala for the Elves, for he is one, and he has suffered. I...spin toward the dark, but I have resisted it all my life. And then there is...this.''  
He moved across to look down at Elgalad.  
''Thou art mine, but I cannot stay in the north with thee, much as I would wish to. I will go south. Arda is vast. I traveled much of it as the Slave of Sauron. but I will choose a place I did not go to, and a new life. Not, perhaps, an easy one, but I will always protect thee.''

''I w-will go whither thou g-goest.'' Elgalad came to his feet. He still seemed reluctant to demonstrate his affections, but Vanimórë drew him close, and he sighed and leaned close.

''It will not be like thou hast known, I warn thee, not like Lasgalen, nor Imladris. Mortal's are not as Elves and those of the Darkness can be as cruel as an orc.''

''I would l-live anywhere with th-thee.''

''Thou wilt stand out.''

''And thou w-wilt not?'' Elgalad asked, smiling against his throat.

''I am used to it, I have long been among Men.'' Vanimórë laughed softly and disengaged himself, opening his pack. ''And we have a slight problem...'' He drew out a leather bag, opened it. Small ingots of silver and some coinage of Erebor winked in the light. ''I am now quite...poor. That Dorwinion Red Harvest in Esgaroth. But one must have small pleasures.''

Elgalad frowned a little as he looked at the contents. ''Poor?'' It was unknown in Elven lands, all contributed to the whole, and some of course, were wealthy, but none lacked for anything.

''To live in Mortal lands one needs money, Meluion. I made much as Sauron's slave, through the Ages, from trade, but it was never truly mine, it was his.''

''We c-can hunt for f-food, as we d-did when I was a child, w-we needed no m-money then, my lord, we slept under the stars, or thou d-didst make shelters in winter. Those w-were... beautiful times.''

Vanimórë's eyes softened a little. ''Yes, they were, but art thou suggesting a Vala should live like a houseless trapper?'' He made a shocked face, and Elgalad started to protest, before he saw the teasing smile.  
''I jest, but all I know is to command armies, war. And I know how to govern. And thou...I will not have thee in rags. In Mortal realms, those without wealth have a harder time of it than those with, thou must know that from visiting Esgaroth. I will protect thee, but I will also have thee live amongst beauty and gardens, to remind thee of the north.''

''Thou art V-Vala - canst thou not?'' Elgalad shrugged. ''Make that s-silver into g-gold coins?'' He was hiding a provocative smile.

''I am ashamed of thee ! Misuse my powers?'' He moved across the room, and kissed the waiting mouth.

''I do not misuse my powers with thee, I would rather not do so without pressing reason.'' Elgalad's eyes were misty with desire but he murmured:  
''Thou canst do anything.''

"I cannot do _everything,_" Vanimórë corrected softly. "Nor would I wish to. But I am free now and anyway, it will be more...interesting to begin at the beginning.''

Elgalad nodded. ''Then, d-dost thou know w-where we w-will go, my lord? South? Whereabouts?''

''Yes, into the Harad. If we can act as guards through the land in the chaos that will be seething after Sauron's destruction, there will be opportunities aplenty to travel. But thou and I both must be hidden for a while. Fortunately it is traditional in the desert lands to wear veiling to shut out the sun, and that will serve us well.'' He put aside some of the silver for payment to the inn-keeper. ''We will get horses on our route...until then...'' He drew his thumb across Elgalad's full mouth, and the dark lashes lowered. ''We walk, as we did long ago.'' He heard the soft sigh and clenched his teeth.

''Ah, Hells, thou truly canst not know how much I want thee !'' He turned away to buckle his pack. ''Come.'' ~

~~~


	3. A Princely Court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anwyn

 

This chapter is written by  [ Anwyn ](http://www.lotrfanfiction.com/viewuser.php?uid=2250) . All co-written chapters will be indicated.

  


  


  
_ **Dol Amroth.** _

  


  
~ The ship glided into the port just as the sun was begin to dip down below the horizon, painting the waves vivid shades of crimson and gold. There were several aboard this ship belonging to Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, but there was but only one who descended the wooden ramp immediately even after it had fallen against the dock with a dull _thud._ Upon disembarking the tall figure moved to the awaiting horses and mounted, immediately urging the horse into a swift gallop. There were some who observed this with half interest as they returned to their homes for the evening meal, but none thought to question such haste. Living so near to the port there was often messengers who wished to make up for lost time upon the seas.  
The stallion's shod hooves struck against the stone, and this sound alone was enough to summon a servant to come fourth, bowing as he accepted the Horses reins and lead the stallion towards the stables.

Elphir dismounted and continued onwards up the steps and into the palace in a single flowing movement. The halls of his father were often quiet at this hour. Darkness had spread across the lands and many retired to their own chambers for the evening. The flickering light from lit torches mounted upon silver brackets on the wall lead his path along a hallway, the flames catching the brilliant silver treads and small glass beads woven into the tapestries that lined the halls, portraying images of great ships sailing majestically upon the waves and bearing the crest of his line.

The gilded doors to his rooms swung easily inwards, and the young prince unconsciously began to unfasten the brooch that pinned his heavy cloak, pausing only briefly to throw it across the arm of a high backed chair and placing atop the heavy fabric the bundle he carried under his arm. For a moment he paused, breathing heavily of the familiar scent of salty brine which wafted in through the open windows which mingled with lavender and the fainter woodsmoke from the hearth. Listening intently, but hearing not even a whisper of sound, Elphir moved onwards into the next chamber, and finding that also empty, on to the next. Finding himself alone in the darkened room was certainly not what he had expected or hoped for. There was not even a single lit candle to give testament that any-one had passed through this day.

A gentle whisper brushed close to his ear, as soft as the sea running away from the sands upon the shore. Elphir instinctively stiffened as he felt a hand slide across his abdomen and another raised higher to brush against across his chest. Two arms gently drew him back against the warmth of a woman’s soft body and soft lips pressed against his throat. Elphir allowed himself to simply be drawn into a moment of serenity and bliss after a long and trying journey, then a smile broke upon his lips.  
"I have missed you." "And I you." Anwyn gently laid her head upon her husband's broad shoulder and closed her eyes. They remained standing thus for a moment, then Elphir turned towards Anwyn. Her grey eyes swept across his features and her face titled up towards his like a flower seeking the nurturing rays of the sun. Elphir lowered his head so that he might capture his wife's lips in a long unhurried kiss, his arms wrapping about her and drawing the slender form nearer to himself. When at last he drew away Anwyn’s eyes were hazy and slightly unfocused, though the long lashes swept downwards for a moment before rising, and her gaze was again sharp and bright.  
“You are still late,” she murmured against his lips, giving them a gentle nip, and the gaze that met his was unwavering, her expression that of a woman knowing it had been _several_ weeks of chastity for both of them. Feeling her husband's own need, she gently took his hand leading him towards the bedchamber.

Terah, The merchant Prince whom Elphir had sailed into the South to meet with, was a host who concerned himself with attending to even the smallest of his guests need’s. He had offered Elphir the choice of any of the women of his harem, and though he understood the importance of such an offer, Elphir had politely refused. While the exotic dances performed by the woman, coupled with the ample display of flesh were certain to inflame the desires of any man and Elphir certainly felt the potency of their charms, he returned to his chambers every evening alone.

In years past it was Imrahil that made the journeys to meet with those involved in trade with Gondor, which in years past had become quite lucrative. Imrahil had, as time for the visit once again approached, elected to send his eldest son. Though he had been married short weeks before, more and more often it was Elphir taking up the duties of his Father, and it was not a difficult task he was given, though he was loathe to leave his wife for such a time.

Anwyn had seemingly taken his leaving in her stride, understanding that her husband’s duties lay far into the south, though the thought of such a long voyage across the sea had left her weak in the knees. While she still basked in the light of the joy of their newly forged union, Anwyn urged Elphir to fulfill his duty to the King and his Father and not to concern himself overly much with her; she would await his return.

So Elphir had departed, accompanied by several of his chosen companions. For these mariners, the voyage was not a difficult journey, merely a long one, not helped by the fact they were at times without winds to carry them.

Upon upon reaching the ports of Umbar they had been warmly welcomed by Terah, a large man whose deep voice and booming laughter could, Elphir thought, be heard from leagues away. Although he adorned himself in heavy garments of silk and chains of gold, Elphir had never known him to be barbarous or arrogant and friendship had been secured between them.

Elphir sunk back into the plush cushions of the settle, crossing one booted leg over the other. The tall woman who moved to pour him wine was certainly different to the beauties who had served him in the prior weeks, their eyes darkened with kohl giving them a heavy-lidded, mysterious appearance. Anwyn was tall and quite fair, even at such a simple task carrying herself with a strong sense of grace and efficiency.  
“How have you been?” he inquired curiously, dor apart from the initial teasing upon his return Anwyn had been uncharacteristically quiet.

“Well enough,” she answered vaguely setting down the shapely silver vessel with a gentle _clink._

In truth Anwyn did not wish to bore Elphir with all that he had missed, or rather _had not_ missed in his absence. Initially Anwyn had sought to fill her days with the pursuits of the other ladies of the court. This had been most woefully short of her expectations, for it seemed that the All Father had not gifted her with fingers clever or agile enough to grasp the finer arts of needle work, and while she had aspirations of presenting Elphir with a beautiful work created by her own hands upon his return, she had pricked her fingers far too many times and swiftly grew tired, leaving such things to those with a mind for it.

The lands of Belfalas were beautiful, and there was much to be seen and if an escort was able to accompany her Anwyn instead choose to often ride out and see for herself the lands that rolled downwards into the sea. At other times she had learned of the ships that she often watched prowling over the waves, and in her Imrahil had found a most eager pupil, though every offer to take out upon a ship had been politely yet firmly declined. Anwyn’s desire to keep her feet upon soil won out above all else.

Yet such quiet was not entirely unwelcome. Not long before, the dangerous ambitions of a lord whom had once been in Imrahil’s trust, had been unearthed. On the verge of being caught and punished, Ýridhren had fled Dol Amroth, presumably into the south, but not before he had nearly taken Anwyn’s life in a moment of madness. Marks and bruises would slowly fade, but the memories that remained were not so swift to disappear.

Anwyn knew, though they had not spoken of it, that Elphir would seek to pursue Ýridhren and end his life for he was far too dangerous to be left alive, but since upon returning Elphir had not mentioned it, and so Anwyn had said nothing. She wished to savor his return. Night was quickly approaching and tonight he would be hers.

Pressing the glass into Elphir hand’s she allowed her hand to linger over his for a moment before seating herself, drawing one leg beneath her. Anwyn had fought against her own urge to throw herself upon Elphir the very moment she had heard him come through the door, and had reined herself in. If he was weary she knew the wine would revive him somewhat, and the wait would merely heighten their passion. The waiting was hard, however; all she wished was to drag him to the bed and have her most wicked way with him.

Unbeknownst to Anwyn, the thoughts of her husband were not so distant from her own.

“I have a gift you,” Elphir announced, suddenly rising and startling Anwyn. He put down the now empty winecup and for a long moment disappeared into the antechamber before reappearing with a large bundle that had been carefully wrapped in red cloth. As it was settled into her lap, Anwyn realized it was quite heavy.

“What is it?” she asked, curious as to the why Elphir, now of all times, had decided it must be opened.

“It is a marriage gift from Terah,” Elphir explained “I was told not to open it until we were alone.” Anwyn’s curiosity was piqued at this and she carefully pulled at the string which held the bundle together.

“It is a kind thought,” she murmured as she worked, for she was somewhat surprised by the gesture, but it was indeed kind for whatever the Merchant Prince had given them it was most _heavy._

Layer by layer the fabric slowly fell away, for like something very precious, the gift had been wrapped several times as to ensure it’s safe voyage. It was a book, it’s leather covering weathered but otherwise well cared for, and upon it’s cover, embossed in gold was stamped: _“The Garden of a Thousand Delights”*_.  
Anwyn’s brow furrowed slightly as she read the title aloud, her fingers traveling across the leather, and she heard a sharp intake of breath from Elphir.

“It is a book of…Gardens?” she spoke again, confusion creeping into her tone, while she did not wish to appear ungrateful she could not understand Terah’s great desire that they should own such a book; indeed it seemed as though it should have been given to Imrahil for he had a great love of his plants…

“No, my sweet” Elphir breathed, his thoughts momentarily returning to the day of his departure when the merchant had handed him this gift, the secret amusement that had crinkled the edges of his dark eyes as Terah had told him he was passing on the very thing that had allowed him to keep his harem satisfied. The prince had thanked him before taking his leave, though he had wondered what Terah had eluded to. It was a gesture he now fully understood, for this volume was known to him, but he could scarcely believe that he would see it with his own eyes.

“What is it?” Anwyn demanded, though it took no time at all for curiosity to win over patience. Her fingers felt the smooth glide of the gilded pages as she opened the book at its center. Her eyes widened and her breath hitched in her throat.  
The page was beautifully illustrated. While she could only guess at the age of the book, it appeared as though the ink had only just finished drying. The two lovers were depicted in such a joining that Anwyn would have scarcely believed it possible, while upon the opposing page very careful and implicit instruction had been written as to how to make such love was shown.

Anwyn nearly moaned aloud. If the ache of desire in her body was difficult to withstand before, the eroticism of the painting was to place a meal before one who was starved. With trembling fingers she turned to the next page, and then the next, each new illustration of bodies interwoven, each page even more sensual then the last. The leather covered pressed to her hand, supple and soft, the slip of her silk nightgown gown against her own bare thigh, every last touch was heightened.

“Anwyn...” The voice was a throaty whisper from somewhere behind her and Anwyn tore her gaze away from the paintings, turning to Elphir whom she had not felt move. She had not heard him slip from his own clothes, and now he stretched upon their bed, naked and magnificent. Her heart leap upwards into her throat and she did not need to be called twice, although she took the time to carefully lay the book down; it seemed to silently demand it be treated with such careful reverence.

Anwyn slipped from her own night garments and allowed them to pool about her feet, then stepping from them, paused to draw away the clip that had held back her long hair. It fell forward in a golden curtain over her breasts, tumbling down her back to where its tips brushed against her buttocks. Then she had joined her husband upon the bed. Perhaps she had seemed unhurried allowing him a long glimpse of her bare figure, but she had certainly not tarried.

Elphir’s long fingers ran through her hair as he bent to kiss her, and her eyes closed as she surrendered to every touch. Their their love-making took on the fierce rhythm of need of that is wont to grow between lovers that have been apart for far too long. Yet beneath this there lay something deeper, more profound than a coupling. it was born of mutual desires, but also of the deep love that was between them. Anwyn could not rightly say if it heightened the experience, for she had never known the touch of another man she gladly, eagerly gave herself to him.

Warm breath caressed her neck. Slowly drifting down from the heights of pleasure, she once more became aware of the room about them, the bed, the soft sighs of the sea rising against the rocks below the balcony. The hard chest she was drawn so tightly against gave her a feeling of being protected and safe. At the height of contentment, she knew she should not wish for anything more, but she could not help that her thoughts were turned once more to the book that rested on the chair but steps away. Though, she reasoned silently as she felt herself being drawn towards sleep it was the Book of a _Thousand_ delights...and a lifetime lay before them...~

  
~~~

  


**Chapter End Notes:**

  


  


  
*The Garden of a Thousand Delights is a book that was written and illustrated by Vanimore thousands of years ago, I in no way shape or form take any credit for it.

  


~~~


	4. The Road To Fate

  
Vanimórë and Elgalad headed south-east along the ancient road. They hunted, rested under the sky, one slim blanket apiece to cover them, although neither were subject to cold to weariness, their halts were made to cook, or bathe in cold streams, and to speak, to come to truly know one another.  
Sometimes they would lie together, and Elgalad would and press back against Vanimórë, wordlessly begging to be taken. Vanimórë fought the demands of his body, giving as much as he could without fully possessing, and after he lay awake, battling the unceasing hunger.

Spring was come when they crossed into Rohan, and the traffic on the Great West Road which skirted the Ered Nimrais became heavier with Rohirrim warriors, carts and wagons going down to Gondor, or west up from Minas Tirith into Rohan.

They could not get horses in Rohan, so it was that still afoot, but unwearied and going light, they saw the Tower of Ecthelion come into sight below Mindolluin, and the banner of Elessar Telcontar flew proudly in the clear airs.

''Do w-we enter, my l-lord?'' Elgalad asked, looking at the great gates, the flow of people. Through the air came the sound of hammering, chisel on stone. Much rebuilding was going on after the siege of the previous year.

Vanimórë cast him a wry glance. If they had not been so unmistakably Elven in appearance they might have looked a pair of wolfsheads. He laughed, thinking of the Power at his fingertips which he was so loathe to use.  
''I think not, my dear. We will head south, down through Ithilien and into Harondor. I have enough to buy us dried stuffs for travel across that stony land, but there will be no hunting in the deep desert, we will lodge at caravanserais.'' he laid a hand on the straight shoulder. ''Come.''

They made camp just before dawn with Minas Tirith behind them, cooked a grouse and ate and drank from a stream, then Vanimórë sat back against the bole of a tree and drew Elgalad to lay his head on his lap.

''Rest,'' he murmured, drawing up the blanket tenderly. Elgalad sighed, his gaze on the face above him, before he at last succumbed to sleep.

The sun shimmered in Elgalad's eyes as he woke, and he nuzzled his cheek into Vanimórë's groin dreamily, feeling a sense of triumph at the swelling hardness. Hands tightened in his hair. He murmured something unintelligible as his lips moved over the black leather of the breeches.

The groan of cartwheels was audible from the road beyond the trees and there came, loud in the morning, a crash which turned Elgalad's head that way. He found himself drawn to his feet.

''Thou art wicked.'' Vanimórë smacked him lightly across his rear as he took a few steps out from the cover of the trees and Elgalad felt himself smiling, even as he blushed and followed.

Two wagons were stationary some three hundred paces away. A wheel had broken on one, and the cart had fallen aslant with men gathered about it, cursing. One of them kicked the broken wheel, and spun around as the two tall figures approached. They looked like vagabonds in their gear, and dangerous, for they bore weapons and thigh sheaths for daggers. One was hooded in green, but the other was bareheaded, a great mane of raven hair drawn back from a white face and this, and the way that both moved, with a light, floating grace, calmed the men, for they were of Dale, and traded with Esgaroth. There was no mistaking Elves.

''Greetings. A fair morning.'' The black haired Elf spoke in with a strange, lilting accent.

''Greetings, Master Elf. It would be, but for this cursed wheel.'' The spokesman was young, pale-haired. His clothes were neat, as were his companions, and he bore a short sword with some competence.

''Perhaps we can help. Thou art travelling south?''

''Ay.'' the reply was wary, but not impolite. ''So are we, my friend and I – he is of the Great Wood – perhaps to Umbar.''

''You are from Mirkwood?'' The man peered at the hooded Elf, received a nod, and a soft:  
''Yes, n-now I travel.''

His gentle voice seemed to reassure the man, whose tongue loosened.

''I am Edric of Dale. These are my brothers, Hustan and Haestan. My family have traded in amber and furs for generations, and now that the Great War is over, we thought, why not extend or trade further south?" he warmed to his theme. "They say the King's flag will soon fly over Umbar and he will take the northern Harad and make it part of his Kingdom. No profit without a gamble, is there? You are warriors, by the look of it?''

Vanimórë nodded with a faint smile and set his shoulder under the tilted cart. It lifted easily back to a level position, and the mens mouths gaped, although they knew Elves were reputed to be very strong.

''Our swords are at thy service, if perchance thou do carry any Dorwinion wine.''

Edric guffawed, as his brothers began to mend the broken wheel.

''We traded with some Dorwinion merchants a way back, they follow, also to Umbar, but this wine is not for sale, it is our ration for the journey. The heat is bound to make a man thirst down in the southlands.'' He grinned. ''You are welcome, the wine will be part of your pay. Truth to tell, we would be glad of you. No-one was willing to come from Dale. There is much to do up there, but the Dorwinion traders reckoned we could hire a guide in Gobel Ancalima.''

~~~

They were the newer generation, Vanimórë learned as they traveled. Edric carried few goods on this, his first excursion, but they were good quality: tears of amber set in Dwarf-mined silver, and two goblets cut from great chunks of the stone, fine pelts of silver fox as samples, and snow white falcons from the mountains. These were intended for the reputedly thriving markets of Umbar, and if he could return with spices or silks he would, he said, count the journey profitable.

Edric's optimism suffered a slight check as the lands became stonier and drier, melting into the once debatable land of Harondor, between Gondor and the Harad. Towns here were built behind stout stone walls and there was little greenery, the people were strange, veiled in white and the skins darker. But there were many traders on the road and not far behind them a large train of wine-merchants were also making the journey.

Edric, as he realized that the tall, black haired Elf knew this land and the customs, relaxed a little more, only too-willing to have him barter at the caravansaries. He and his companion one did not appear to sleep much and guarded the small camp each night.

At a caravansary south of Gobel Ancalimon, Vanimórë noticed that he was being observed by the head guard of the Dorwinion merchants. The man was bronzed and lean, a few grey hairs in his neatly oiled beard and with the look of a seasoned fighter. Vanimórë turned and regarded him inquiringly, and the man approached with a nod.

''You are _Lichtloth,_'' the soldier said without preamble. ''I have seen you riding with the Northblood, yet you bear the marks of the White Wolf tribe and speak the tongue of the desert like one born here.''

Since crossing the river into Harad proper, Vanimórë had advised the traders to veil themselves against the sun, and shown them how to twist and knot turbans. The men had heard of the heat, but had no experience of the brutality of the desert. Vanimórë too had gone veiled, but it was night now and, sitting beside Elgalad at his small fire while the Northerners slept, he had offed the turban.

He glanced briefly at his bare arms with the sweeping tattoos. Long ago, at the beginning of the Second Age, the first chieftain of the White Wolves had taken the markings borne by Vanimórë, who had lead his ancestor, Acadai, south. The tribe still wore them to this day.

''I have taken the salt of that tribe,'' he said.

The man's dark brows rose.  
''My father was of the Wolve. Very strange to me it seems that one of the _Lichtloth_ would be so welcomed.''

''I am well traveled in the south, and very old. It is, as they say, ancient history.'' Purple eyes gleamed in the darkness. ''In what way may I aid thee?''

The dark eyes dropped, the man's fingers rested upon a charm hanging at his throat, then he tilted his head.  
''The other one? He is always close to you. Is he yours? Can I buy him?''

The beautiful, hard face went cold.  
''Thou may not. For any price.''

The Man shrugged philosophically.  
''And I suppose you are not either?''

The _Lichloth_ laughed and shook his head, reached out his hand, offering the clasp of a warrior.

''No.'' his eyes danced. ''My name is Vanimórë.''

''I am Al-Nashaar.'' They gripped wrists and bowed. ''A shame. Beauties, the pair of you, and if I can find the right buyer for the treasure I have come across, I will see if I can afford a northern slave for my couch. They will be hard to come by, but not impossible for the right price. And then I will retire from these long journeys a happy man. Wait.'' He melted into the dark and returned from his camp with something wrapped in leather.  
''I came by it in Szrel-Kain. There are only a few in existence, it is said.'' He untied the leather strings and revealed the book.

Vanimórë's brows rose. ''_ The Garden of a Thousand Delights,_'' he murmured. "I have not seen this in a long time."

''It seems very old.''

''It is – and copied, but by some-one who had seen an original, or another very good copy.'' Gently, he lifted the leather cover and turned the pages. Half of the book was devoted to the pleasure of men and women, the second half the pleasures between two males, and two females. The illustrations were accompanied by written text on the left hand page.

''Thou wert indeed fortunate to come across it.'' His smile was so redolent of sensuality that Al-Nashaar felt a thud of desire in his loins.  
''I can tell thee where to get a very good price for this in Umbar.''

''Excellent, I paid a great deal for it. I would not like to think I had been cheated.''

''Go to the house of the Merchant Prince Terah, he has a villa in Umbar, although he hails from much further south. He will try and buy this for perhaps 20,000 silvers, do not take less than 50,000. This is rare and the old screw will know it.''

The thought of so much wealth was as good as a draft of Dorwinion. Al-Nashaar took back the book greedily.  
''I knew the Gods smiled on me the day I acquired this!'' He grinned as he wrapped it carefully and tucked it under his arm. "I would keep it, but I can remember much before I part with it."

''I really advise the pleasure beads,'' Vanimórë murmured, turning away. ''In fact I can vouch for the pleasure given by any of the toys written of, depending on how adventurous thou art feeling. A fair journey to thee. May the Gods – some of them anyway – continue to smile on thee.''

''You have read this?'' Al-Nashaar asked, interested.

A wicked smile flashed in the dark.  
''I wrote it.''  
And he laughed softly as he sat down again beside his fire.~

 

~~~

 

Lichtloth - Elf - Northern Haradhic  



	5. Loveless Power

  
~   
~ No matter that the cry of ''Corsairs of Umbar!'' had long been one of dread and hate, the great port and city in the firth of the Nen Umbar would ever be a rich and bustling place. It hummed like a hive with different dialects and tongues, and ships flying flags of many nations rode at anchor.

Vanimórë saw, riding proudly on the gentle swell, one great ship, lean and splendid, with the rippling banner of the Ship and Swan of Dol Amroth. A swan indeed among the cogs and fat-bellied merchant ships flocking in after the spring storms. He glanced at it consideringly and then at a ship not far away, a long, seaworthy vessel with blue and purple sails, bearing an insignia strange to him: a snarling lions head on a black background.

A strange ship going to a strange destination... that suited him well. He paused, watching two sailors emerge down the ramp, their speech vaguely familiar to him as having its roots in the tongue of what was now known as Black Númenorean, many of whom had settled the western coast-lands in their days of far voyaging.

''Excuse me.'' He arrested their passage by the simple expedient of placing himself in their path, and they halted, startled truculence replaced by a wary regard as they met purple eyes over the veiling.  
''Whither bound?'' He nodded to the ship.

''We are out of Tanith,'' one of them replied. ''Far south.''

''My companion and I have an inclination to travel south, dost thou take passengers?''

The men exchanged a glance.  
''Ay, if you can pay,'' his dark eyes skimmed over Vanimórë. ''death-fighter are you? '' At the silence, he added.: ''For the Games?''

''Ah,'' Vanimórë replied thoughtfully. And he saw and felt the beat of the sun upon a sand floor, while about him rose a vast oval of tiered white stone filled with a crowd who bayed and screamed eagerly for the blood that soaked into the sand.

''Exactly so,'' he murmured. ''Now, where is the Captain?''

''I will take you.'' The older man bobbed his head. Vanimórë gathered the impression that such fighters were respected and lauded in Tanith. He followed the sailor up the ramp.

A little later he descended again, wove through the babble of tongues and shouted orders as he made his way from the docks.

Sailors on shore leave reeled from taverns, harlots leaned from windows, displaying bare breasts and tinted faces, but the streets became quieter as they rose from the waterside and he came to the inn where Edric lodged.  
In the room he had hired, flushed on wine from a profitable day,the merchant welcomed Vanimórë.  
Edric was older now, plumper and much wealthier. It had been five and twenty years since his Elven guards had joined him. Vanimórë, who was loathe to take Elgalad entirely from the North, had agreed to a flexible long-term arrangement with the Dale merchant. He and Elgalad sometimes lodged in Dale from autumn to spring, to breathe the cool airs and see the leaves turn scarlet and yellow in the waning of the year, the first windflowers bloom in the spring. And there were many other matters in the north that he had involved himself with. The time had passed swiftly.

''My life changed for the better when I came upon you,'' Edric declared, breaking the lead seal on a fresh bottle of Red Harvest. ''I will be sad to lose your company.'' To say nothing of the swords and bows which had ensured the security of his ever larger trains of goods from Esgaroth.

''I thank thee, but we must go on. The men we hired in Dale will serve thee well, they are trustworthy.''

Edric, a little appeased by this, nodded, and poured the rich wine.  
''But why would you wish to go south, sir?'' He did not know why he had titled this raven haired Elf. It had been reflexive and he had never had any desire to call him by his name or be familiar. ''You are of Mirkwood," he gestured toward Elgalad. "Why would _you_ wish to go to the southlands?''

"We want to travel the world.'' Vanimórë saluted Edric, finished the wine, and then retired with Elgalad to his room.

~~~

''A city called Tanith.''

From the open windows still rose the incessant buzz of a city which thrived on trade and rarely slept. Elgalad drew his veil down under his chin, scenting the strange, hot-spice scent which permeated all this place.

''I do not know why, save that I have never been there, and as well there as anywhere. It will be a long voyage.'' He unloosed the cloth and let Elgalad's gleaming hair drift free, before tossing his own veil onto one of the narrow beds.  
''Am I wrong, to take thee so far from thy people?'' he wondered.

''I s-said it long ago, my l-lord. I am thine.''

''I have no beautiful land to offer thee, no place of peace such as Glorfindel has given to the Noldor. Not Imladris, where thou art welcome, but one day I will find thee a place in the north with the scent of pine and heather and fern and clear waters.''

''C-could we not find somewhere n-now?'' Elgalad asked softly. ''This city..all th-these cities are the same. The n-noise, the smells...so m-many people...''

''Only the wealthy can afford high walls to close out the noise and give themselves privacy," Vanimórë said. "What else can I do, my dear? I can rule, as I ruled Sud Sicanna, long ago. I dreamed of being accepted among the Elves, and the One has set me even further apart. Canst thou imagine me in Lasgalen?''

Elgalad's lips parted and he looked at his Lord as if he had never seen him before, trying to fit him within the forest realm, and he could not. He was dangerous, of course, but was he, Elgalad, the only one who saw how alone he had always been, how alone he was now?

''Honey.'' The word was rich as that, thick with emotion as Vanimórë threaded his fingers through the silver hair. ''Thou art my sweetness.''

''I w-would be all t-to thee.''  
Twenty-five years, and they had done everything truly save make love.

''Thou art all, Meluion.''

''I am not th-thy lover.''

''But thou art my love. And thou knowest not what I would do to thee in the end.'' He turned away. ''There are some things I must attend to, I will be here before the mid-night bell.''  
He replaced the veil and turban, and swept from the chamber.

~~~

The curtain sank behind Vanimórë as the woman he had chosen crossed to the couch and turned.

As Sauron's son he could always afford the most beautiful and expensive of courtesans. Now he was forced to practice economy. The voyage to the city in the south would take much coin but more would be used in living in the strange city, finding his place, ensuring Elgalad had privacy.

He needed little and had saved and put money into Edric's trade, but he had always had access to wealth and now he must be cautious with coin. This woman was necessary to him, but he could not afford the best, and he could not have who he wanted.  
He need not concern himself with diseases but he had been fastidious for so long that he had chosen one who was not poxed and, to some degree, took a pride in her appearance. But like most whores, her eyes were old and tired and remained so as she slipped her loose robe from full breasts, the nipples dark as plums against her gold skin. She was comely enough but he was not interested in pulchritude.

_What am I? Forced to pay for women who open their legs through necessity to any sailor with coin, because I dare not risk unleashing my desires on Elgalad? _

He unwound his veil. The woman's eyes widened and she backed away, her fingers making the sign against evil.

''I am no demon,'' he said calmly, tossing a heavy silver coin upon a rickety table, where cheap wine and two clay cups sat. ''I am _Lichtloth._''

His power pressed on her, enough to drive the superstitious fear from her, make her compliant. She let the thin robe fall and lay down on the pallet.  
Some thick scent anointed her body but when he remembered the stench of the great black Uruks of Barad-dûr who had raped him, it became the costliest perfume. He reached down, touching her, taking time to give her pleasure until her sighs became genuine, not something uttered to please a customer. She arched toward him, crying out as he entered her. Her legs wrapped around him, her hands moved over his back and then he knelt, placing her legs against his chest.

One learned in Ages of loveless couplings.

Perspiration sprang on her skin as he moved her again to kneel before him and his hair fell in a cool cascade over her hot flesh, his fingers still rubbing her gently. No man had ever concerned themselves with her pleasure.

Still he was unsatisfied, even as her cries and groans increased and she writhed like a speared otter in culmination of her release.

A burst of flame exploded through his mind and he could not see nor hear through it for a long moment. He seemed to hang in flame before the walls of the cramped room came back into focus.

The woman lay face down on the pallet and for a moment, withdrawing from her, he thought only that she gathered her breath and then in a wave of sudden shock, he knew she was dead.

He turned her; her eyes were still open in surprise and pleasure but her heart had stopped, unable to take the power which he had not, in his hunger, controlled. He had never needed to with those of power.

He rose and whirled, came up against the wall, spread his hands against it and closed his eyes.

_I did not mean to kill her ! _

He reached for his discarded clothes, reflexively dressing and stepped to the window, pushing open the wooden shutters. There was an alley below, he smelled urine, heard the warning hiss and spit of rival cats fighting over some flung offal.

Like a black shadow he slipped down into the alley and walked away, melting into the streets, seeing nothing until he came to the inn.

Elgalad was awake standing at the balcony, and turned as Vanimórë entered, wrenching off his veiling robes.

''Wh-what is it?'' The only time he had ever seen anything like this look on his Vanimórë's face was when he himself lay dying, choking on blood.

''My lord?'' He stepped forward and was brought up short by a hand on his chest.

''Do not touch me.''

''What h-happened?''

As Vanimórë dropped to his knees, Elgalad plunged down with him.

''Tell me!''

''I was with a woman.'' Vanimórë looked up through webs of hair stark against his white face.

Elgalad flinched but did not look away. He knew his lord had needs. So did he, he thought with a touch of bitterness.

''I had to have some-one, and I cannot have thee! She was a whore, paid for, I have had them before and never ill-treated them. I killed her...''

Elgalad abruptly sat back on his heels.

''I did not mean too. I sought to quench my hungers in her body, and my power killed her, I felt it run through me, it was all around me, and it killed her...''

''Oh, my d-dear lord...''

''I have killed many people Meluion, but never that way, as if I were Morgoth, or some murderous rapist like the one who would have violated and slain thee!'' The burning eyes were the only light in the chamber.

''Thou d-didst not m-mean to...'' Elgalad offered, his throat swollen with pity and grief, for the woman, for the devastation stamped upon Vanimórë's face.

''And yet she is dead.'' He came to his feet like a snake. ''It might have been thee !''

''N-no.'' Elgalad still knelt looking up at him.

''I would not mean to, as I did not mean to kill her. I thought I might own thee, corrupt thee, make thee nothing but a slave trained to my pleasure, destroy thine innocence, but not that I might take thy life!''

Elgalad shook his head vehemently, and Vanimórë seized a handful of silver of hair and jerked him up.  
''I know not how to control this Power, I was not born to it, and wanting thee so much...I would unleash it on thee.''

"No." Elgalad winced at the drag on his hair but pressed closer, and it was Vanimórë who stepped back.

''I do n-not fear thy love, my d-dear lord.''

Vanimórë stared at him, and then with a groan dropped his face into Elgalad's hair. They clung together as the city horns sounded midnight.

_I would kill him, and kill my own heart. He does not understand... Ai, Eru, what hast thou done? _

  
On the mid-morning tide the ship out of far Tanith took the swell into the Nen Umbar, and the west wind bellied the sails as its prow pointed to the south...~

~~~


	6. Troubled Waters

 

(Written by Anwyn)  


  


~ The wind blew offshore from the south. By the time it reached Anwyn’s window it was little more than a breath of warm breeze, scarcely strong enough to ruffle the gauzy curtain but upon it, unseen and unknown, came great changes.

Anwyn woke alone. She was slowly growing accustomed to this, watching Elphir hurry off as fleeting as a shadow to once again take counsel with his Father and the Lords of the Court. At least that was what she was told, and she had no cause to question him. It seemed to her at times that he must endlessly meet and spend long hours behind closed doors where she was not permitted to go. Even at those times he did return to take a meal with her he still seemed absent, lost in his own thoughts, as though some dark cloud lingered over him that even she could not lift.

It had begun to weigh more and more heavily upon her, for Anwyn did not enjoy spending her days at tasks that were merely meant to distract her thoughts for a time. She could not demand her new husband's attention at every moment, but the joy of the first night of his return seemed distant now. For many nights she had gone to her bed alone and woken to find herself alone, the covers about her undisturbed, a sign that Elphir had not joined her even for a brief rest.

It came as an unexpected pleasure when Elphir woke her early in the one morning to announce that they would ride out together. No guard would follow, and they would be alone. Anwyn saw no reason to conceal her happiness and was glad to be away from the pressing formalities of the court which she at times found stifling.

They took the long road down towards the sea and the Port of the White ships, often having to yield to the slow wagons that rumbled past carrying fish caught that morning and taking them to market or heavy barrels from merchants ships. It had always intrigued Anwyn: what had been carried from those far lands? She watched their progress with curiosity.

Cutting away from the main road, they followed a narrow winding path where the earth beneath the horse’s feet gradually grew looser and strange grasses grew sparsely amongst the sandy shoals. At last the port was out of sight. The only sound was the distant cries of gulls and the gentle lapping of the waves against the sandy shore.

They reined in the horses and allowed them to wander, trusting that they would stray overly far. It had been a long ride and Anwyn welcomed a chance to stretch her legs, though the pulling of the sands hampered her step, as it was not something she was accustomed to. Laughing, she had tried to run only to tumble and fall headlong onto the sand. Grinning, Elphir offered her a hand and pulled her up, and together they walked to where the sand was firmer, damp from the passing of the tides.

“That Ship...” Elphir murmured, his grey eyes narrowing and resting upon a vessel which was anchored in the deeper waters just offshore. It flew no visible flag but appeared to be a merchants ship; were not designed for swift travel but built sturdily, able to endure the hardships of longer voyages with a heavy cargo.

Even as Elphir studied the ship, and questioned aloud as to why it would drop its anchor so close to shore with the port so close, Anwyn turned, her attentions drawn to the calls of her stallion, Bellant who stood, head raised and ears forward listening. He loosed a throaty cry which was answered by another and with a snort, the stallion took off at a quick gallop, Elphir own mount following quickly behind.

Anwyn started forward in pursuit, but her step was swiftly arrested as Elphir grabbed her arm and drew her back.  
“Wait,” he commanded. Anwyn heard nothing, save the waves breaking against the shore, the sound of her own breathing. Elphir was so very still that she felt a flutter of fear beating against her breast and tried to turn her head, look to his eyes, see some small hint of reassurance.

“Run.”

Anwyn had come to trust her husband's instincts, but now she balked.  
“Why?” she demanded fighting to pull herself from his grasp, sharply turning about. “What is wrong”

“Go!” The hard shove took her completely off guard and she nearly stumbled once more before regaining her balance. She could not hide the look of hurt mingled with fear.  
“Elphir?” she asked but the soft word was swallowed by the unmistakable sound that caused Anwyn’s throat to go dry: the sound of many hooves moving together at a swift gallop. No longer were there the gentle sounds of the sea or the cry of gulls, but the shrill whinny of a horse which was taken up by another.

It was not a sight she would have expected. Dozens of horses appeared over the sandy banks and without pause charging toward them.

Distantly, Anwyn heard Elphir shout to her but his words were lost upon her. She could not move, before she had time to completely draw in what was happening, they were upon her.

They descended with the swiftness of a hawk swooping down upon its prey. They took her arms first, wrenching them tightly behind her back and twine bit into the soft flesh. Anwyn acted instinctively, striking out with her feet, feeling her foot impact against the bone of a man’s leg. A howl of pain split the air which was filled with the cries of horses and Anwyn’s own furious shouts as she was wrestled down. She bit into the man’s hand and thrashed. While her captures did not strike back Anwyn fought against them with the ferocity of a mountain cat fighting to free itself.

She called out to Elphir and then icy water stole all her breath as she was dragged into the sea, still struggling wildly against the hands that held her and dragged her further into the churning waves  
_They shall drown me!_ was the wild thought that ran through her mind. Yet care was taken to keep her head above the water as the men pressed forward. The salt stung her eyes and caused her vision to blur.

Hands grasped her arms. She she was hauled roughly upwards and deposited upon the ship's deck, before being dragged to her feet and pulled. She felt herself being thrown forward, a door shut behind her and the sound of a bolt rasped against old metal as the lock slid into place. Gathering herself, she shivered, giving a start and then a cry of relief as she felt herself drawn into a familiar embrace. her cheek rested a moment against Elphir’s damp tunic. Slowly her vision was clearing but there was little to be seen for they sat in darkness.

“What? Where?” she asked, despising the tremble she heard in her words, but she felt thoroughly rattled as she felt the bonds being drawn away from her wrists and she flinched. The salt water had run into where the twine had rubbed the flesh raw, and it stung terribly.  
“Sea wolves. Pirates,” Elphir whispered savagely and while Anwyn could not see his expression she heard the unmistakable anger in his tone.

“What do they want with us?” she asked.

“I do not know,” Elphir answered, voice still sharp. “My Father has been seeking to capture for them for months,” he continued. “They have been attacking villages close to the shore, carrying off slaves. They know the coast well.” The last words held a measure of bitterness Anwyn had never heard from Elphir.

The Sea wolves were indeed swift and fearless and the attack had been brazen, foolhardy, Anwyn thought incredulously. They were not far from the heavily patrolled docks where Dol Amroth received many ships into the safety of its high stone walls.

“You knew of them...” she spoke as the realization slowly dawned on her.  
“You have hunted them…and yet they have eluded you until...”

“Anwyn…” Elphir began and she raised a hand in the darkness though the gesture was not seen.

“Is this what you would not tell me about? Is this what you have kept from me?” she demanded, the carefully erected walls that had held back her resentment of her husband’s secrecy were slowly crumbling.

“You are my wife! It is my duty to protect you!” Elphir answered from somewhere within the darkness, and Anwyn turned her face to the direction of the disembodied voice.

“What danger is there in knowledge?” she rubbed her sore wrists unconsciously, making them sting.

“They called me by name,” Elphir murmured quietly, as though he had never even heard her question. His step was nearly silent and she turned blindly towards the voice.

“Why did you not tell me of them?” Her question seemed swallowed by the darkness and she groped blindly, her questing fingers finding nothing.

“They have come to my lands, They have slaughtered my people,” Elphir answered, his voice tinged by sorrow.

“Our people,” Anwyn corrected gently. Her fingers grazed rough wood and she laid her hand flat against it. It was a comfort to find something solid in the darkness that was growing disorienting.

Anwyn had come to view the lands of Dol Amroth as another jewel upon the crown of Gondor, beautiful and glistening with its lush lands yielding to the blue sea. By the strength and will of those such as her husband the principality was protected, and she had not heard of the attacks upon the coast. Elphir had kept that concern from her, choosing to carry the burden upon his own shoulders. This angered her, but she found she could not turn that anger towards Elphir. If she was truthful with herself, she would have done the same.

“I should not have brought you, I did not think…I did not think...” Elphir trailed off and she felt a hand grasp hers. Their fingers intertwining and she found a measure of comfort.

“Forgive me Anwyn, I would not have brought you into such danger if I had known…”  
The warm breath next to her ear was a sharp contrast to the chill of her body.

“You could not have known,” she assured him, her voice slipping into the silence.

“It was not meant to end like this.”

Anwyn smiled sadly into the darkness.  
“I know,” she felt the sway of the ship beneath her feet and closed her eyes for a long moment.

This was a sickly scent of collusion about this, perhaps more. They had been undoubtedly followed from the city, and their capture had been alarmingly efficient.  
Anwyn was no Warrior but Elphir had undoubtedly tested them, though she realized once they had her that they have would used her to force him to surrender.  
Anwyn was too proud to admit her fear, though it twisted like a knot in the pit of her stomach. She took comfort in the fact that Elphir was with her. Together they would face the uncertainty ahead. ~  


  


~~~


	7. Far Into The South

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
The heat grew as the ship plied south. At times, they sailed past long beaches which were as white and seemed as barren as the face of the moon, stretching for league upon league. Nothing seemed to move save the roll of the waves onto those lonely shores, but the waters were alive with fish and dolphins sped before them at whiles, exuberant and graceful. Elgalad's eyes, the only part of him visible under his veils, sparkled with delight.

''Ulmo's children,'' Vanimórë smiled.

Sometimes at night the ocean gleamed with phosphorescent light, and at times, their Elven-sight discerned the plume of a spouting whale far to the east.

They put into ports for water and fruit; strange, exotic places which even Vanimórë had never seen, but the two did not disembark. Their destination was Tanith, to fight in the Games.  
Death warriors.

Then the coast changed, thrusting west into Belegaer. Occasionally mountains could be seen, and the land, watered by rains off the Great Sea, was more lush. These were the Dominions of the Black Númenoreans, which swept to the southernmost point of the Harad. Here, Belegaer clashed with Straits of the World and storms cracked jagged lances of lightning across the sky. The sailors fought with the rigging and cursed, but Vanimórë laughed, knowing Ossë sported.

The ship headed east along the Slave Coast and the sea was scattered by islands, as if the mainland had bitten off chunks of itself and spat them into the waters. The sea lanes were heavy among the isles and at last, there came in sight, their destination. A place Vanimórë had never seen before.  
Tanith.

The city climbed from a sheltered harbor, the houses seeming to tumble downward from the cliff. Above, domes and towers glinted. One wide street, lined with obelisks of white and black marble lead directly upward.

The sea was clear, the sky brilliant, causing the white stone of the buildings to glare in the sunlight. A day of good omens save that, unerringly, Vanimórë's eyes turned south.

There seemed to be a dark mist on the horizon, a fog that sat upon the surface of the water, a smudge of darkness. The eye was drawn to it and then, seeing nought, moved away. But his gaze lingered, narrowing a little, before it lifted again to the city.

The ship nudged in to dock, and the ramp slapped down. Bearing only their weapons and packs, Vanimórë and Elgalad disembarked, eliciting little notice, as they trod up the road from the docks. Vanimórë had inquired of the captain where a good inn might be found, and followed directions through the quayside streets.

This was a thriving place. They crossed a vast square filled to bursting with market stalls. The air was loud with the cries of vendors and the scent of spices and livestock was thick. Under awnings, copper bowls were heaped with fruits and vegetables, rare saffron glowed, gold winked, silks caught the shafts of sunlight in glissades of color. Further away came the wicker of penned horses, the bellow of kine, the snarl of great cats and other exotic beasts in cages. Under shade, manacles clinking, the inevitable human wares for sale suffered uncertain futures in silence.

On a wide way leading from the market square, a long building fronted by urns of hot red and pink flowers, was proclaimed as the House of the Palms, the inn which the captain had recommended. It was a large place, built in a style common to the southlands, around a large inner court, with balconies overlooking it. Cool stone stairs lead up to passageways where closed doors showed private rooms and a young woman in a long red robe lead them up and bowed.

''Bring a meal and the best wine.'' Vanimórë placed a silver coin into her hand. The innkeep had also acted as a money changer, which indicated he was used to housing people from many different lands.

''On the instant, lords.'' She whisked around and vanished.

The room they stood in was one of three; the other two a bathing chamber and bedchamber. The balcony looked down over a small garden where more flowers grew from earthenware pots and a small fountain played. A fair enough place.

''Wait,'' Vanimórë warned, as Elgalad reached a hand to his veil. Only when the serving girl returned with a tray and left it upon a low table, did the two off their turbans and shake loose their hair.  
The food, as was often the case with port cities, was fish; giant prawns, seasoned and lightly fried on skillets, fresh flat bread, cheese and fruit. The wine was better than Vanimórë expected, pale golden, with a dry, citrus taste, and well chilled. After the meal, he sent Elgalad to bathe, then cleansed himself. They shook out fresh clothes from their packs, leaving the others for the servants to clean.

The floor was scattered with large cushions and Vanimórë lay back, hands behind his head, watching the patterns of light which fell through the fretted wood of the screen and laid inlay upon the walls, paler gold against stark white.

''My l-lord?'' Elgalad addressed him in this tongue of the south, which he had been learning on the voyage, and could now speak with some facility. Vanimórë had said, amusedly, that he had probably learned many profanities.

The black head turned and Vanimórë said: ''Come,'' and reached out a hand. A smile glowed in the grey eyes as Elgalad sat close to him and was drawn down against the hard chest. This was rare now. Realizing, what torments his lord endured at his closeness – while it thrilled him to know he was so desired – had also caused Elgalad to withdraw a little. At times he did, he admitted, tempt Vanimórë deliberately, though he could see the pain it caused. But he suffered too.

''Thou hast still n-not explained. I h-heard the sailors speak of D-Death Fighters?''

''Death fighters." Vanimórë murmured, with a scornful tilt to his lips. "They fight before crowds to the death, which is where their name comes from, it is long since I heard it. I was one, in Númenor, in its last years.''

He could see it so very clearly, the great arena in Armenelos where the matches were watched by the king, by Sauron, and other nobles who delighted in such brutal displays. Vanimórë had never been beaten, although he had limped off with many wounds, bleeding and bruised. He was matched against great muscled champions, against beasts made savage by beatings and human flesh. And after, chained, he would dance for Ar-Pharazôn, and then be bound so that that King might take his pleasure.

_ Death warrior. _

The name even sprang from Númenor's latter dark years.

''Fight, and k-kill, so that p-people may watch?'' Elgalad frowned.

''The crowds love such a spectacle.''   
  
''How c-can they? It is vile.''

''Yes, it is vile, but the sailors spoke of the fighters who win as being famed and rich, and we need the coin, my dear. What do I know so well as warrior skills? Do not worry, I cannot be killed and I will not use Power to win.'' His fingers smoothed down over the silver hair.

''And .. d-dost thou wish me to...?''

''Hells, no !'' Vanimórë sat up, turning the fair face on his lap, and gazed into those pellucid eyes.

''No, not thou. Thou hast great skills, but thou art no cold-blooded killer. There is more than one way to loose thine innocence and that is one, to feel nothing when thou dost take a life, which is no orc, or servant of the Dark, but merely a Man with dreams and hopes like other men. No, Meluion, fight in war, or in defense, or not at all.''

Elgalad touched the face above his. ''In truth I would not w-want to, my l-lord.''

''I know, my sweet. Now... Later we will walk this city and listen, and I will decide what I will do. But now, rest.'' He laid a hand over Elgalad's brow.

''Thou w-wilt not l-leave me?'' Elgalad asked, afraid he would wake and find himself alone in this city where all were Men, and strange Men at that, so very far from the green, cool north that he yearned for and loved.

''I am always with thee, and no, I will not leave thee, my mind only, will travel.''

Elgalad pillowed his head more comfortably. In a few heartbeats his eyes became unfocused and his breathing deeper. Unseen by him now, the heat of desire flared in the watching violet eyes and then Vanimórë tipped back his own head and allowed his senses to range out.

He seemed to float, hanging on nothing above Tanith, seeing it as one of the white gulls might, or a sea-eagle. The greater, wealthier part of the city lay above the rugged cliffs. Here, where the land levelled, were built villas and palaces surrounded by high walls and above them all, both in size and elevation lay two mighty structures which seemed to face one another: The palace of the ruler, whose domes flamed with gold tiles and perhaps two leagues away, connected by a wide paved and cambered road, a huge, tiered arena, with seats for thousands of people. In the midst of it was a colossal statue of a man cast in bronze, raising a sceptre high.

About him, like the roar of the sea, were the minds of the population and he enclosed himself within a sphere of quiet as he considered. His mind walked through the hallways of the palace, noting its garish richness, the slaves in white robes, the women and youths enclosed in the seraglio, the nobles, the ministers in silks of peacock blue, scarlet, orange, flickering with gems. At last he came to the center of it, the Emir of Tanith. A man in his prime he seemed, his skin pale, (Númenorean blood) face dusted with gold, eyes lined with black. A handsome man, but with something in his eyes which even Vanimórë could not fathom, save for the familiar, over-ripe smell of corrupt tastes.

His vision drew back. Beyond the palace rolled lands carefully tended for hunting, and high hills backed them, smooth and green, worn by the Ages, watered by frequent rains. Then his inner eye turned and sped over the city, out to the scattering of islands, and came again to that mist of darkness which hung there as if a thumb had pressed on wet ink and drawn a dark smudge across the surface of the sea.

And he could sense.... nothing. ~


	8. Separation

(Written by Anwyn)

 

~ It was impossible to gauge the time that passed, how one day slid into another, when one could not see the light of sun or the rising of the moon. In the dimness there was no sound save the heavy protesting groan of the ship, and little was said now between them. Elphir sat in silence and when Anwyn spoke to him, he often did not reply, seemingly not having heard her. She too drew back into herself for a time, away from the cold and the constant damp of the small confining space which held them. If she concentrated upon that for long it would drive her into madness.  


  
The long days and nights were at times were broken up when the door opened enough for a flask of water, dried meat and fruit could be tossed into the cabin. It seemed they were not be be allowed to starve to death, nor remain strong enough to attempt an escape, for the rations were carefully meager. At times they slept, only to wake once more into darkness.

Days and days passed thus with the only change being that the creeping chill slowly turned into a stifling warmth which made their unpleasant circumstances even more unbearable. Anwyn found herself growing steadily more lethargic as the heat seemed to leech every last ounce of strength from her. Elphir remained near to her at all times and he was the only thing she could take comfort in though she sensed that he was weakening as well. It troubled her that she could scarcely reach out a hand to touch him, to reassure him with her own presence.

She often slept and it grew more difficult for Elphir to rouse her. When she did wake to see his dimly illuminated and haggard face, she smiled weakly for she knew she looked just as thin and unkempt.

Suddenly the familiar sound of the lock turning and the bolt shooting back roused them, although they expected nothing but water or the unending small portions of salt-meat and water. Thus Anwyn was startled when shadowy figures seemed to pour into the cabin. They grabbed her roughly and hurt her, but she did not resist them, she simply had not the strength.

There was a sharp intake breath, a curse and then the terrible _crack_ of some heavy thing connecting against bone and Anwyn cried out as though it had been she who was struck. Elphir, it seemed, was not weak enough.

Her eyes teared as she was lead out. The bright sun was almost unbearable after the cabin's dimness and she stumbled and tripped as she was herded across the deck.

Blood trickled from a fresh gash on Elphir’s temple but his sea grey eyes were hard, defiant as he stood facing the men gathered in a tight ring upon them. All were openly armed, their weapons brandished as though to discourage any further outburst from either prisoner. Anwyn felt scathing contempt; even unwashed and unkempt Elphir seemed high and noble amongst these riff-raff.

She tried to stand, to look as defiant as she felt, but her legs were weak. Gritting her teeth, trying to will strength into them, she struggled against the hard hands.

“Hold her!” one of the men barked. Elphir started forward and was wrenched back.  
“Do not touch her!” His voice was raspy and dry, and his arrogant command only incited the men further. Several more came forward grasping her arms, under her shoulders, and the touch disgusted her.

“Prince Elphir.”  
A heavy-set man stepped forward. He was bald, and his skull and many-times-broken nose told a tale in scars of skirmishes in sea-raids. He spoke in Westron, though guessing at his heritage was difficult.

“We have been…hired to provide you with safe journey to Umbar and so you are delivered.”  
There was something in the mans speech, a certain gentility, that suggested he had not always been a Sea Wolf. His dark gaze slid away from the prince for a moment, before flicking back.  
“In payment, we have been told we might keep the woman.”

“No!” Anwyn shouted, and the leader smiled, revealing yellow, broken teeth.  
“Come gently, Beauty,” he cooed running a hand down her cheek even as Anwyn turned her face away.  
“I do want you hurt any more.”

Anwyn was frantic now as she resisted the men that sought to lead her away, her fear giving her the strength to buck and twist.  
“_Elphir!_” she cried, turning her head and raising her voice to be heard above the babble. But Elphir did not stir, he seemed frozen, his eyes fixed upon her’s for a long moment until as though waking from a dream, he sprung forward. The men surged onto him, taking him to the deck and he disappeared from a Anwyn's sight in a violent display of kicking feet and swinging fists. Even as she watched in horror, something was drawn over her head and it drowned out the sounds, muffling her outraged cries.

  
Suddenly she was no longer Anwyn, wife to Elphir and proud daughter of Rohan. She was merely another small drop amidst the great ocean of life that swelled about her as, blinded and rendered mute, she was carried through what sounded like a great market-place. She was lost within it, of no greater importance than anyone else; she was without a face, without a name or past, and so it was that before she was even delivered to a great house high upon a hill overlooking the thriving port of Umbar, she had already become a slave. ~

~~~


	9. Under The Mist Of Gold

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
Three times a year, in spring and autumn and at midsummer, the Games were held. With the Spring Games but a moon away, warriors, champions, mercenaries and adventurers from all over the Harad were flocking to Tanith to add their names to the great ledger kept by the comptroller. Among them one had written _ Vanimórë. _ He had no reason not to use his name. Few had ever known it and those who did would hardly be likely to come to this place.  
He had not availed himself of the training grounds, nor as some did, had he paid to enter the fighting schools. He had instead purchased horses and ridden with Elgalad beyond the city.

Tanith was blessed by mild rains from the sea and hot sun. Towns and villages of square white stone dotted the land, vineyards cloaked the hill slopes and the wines they produced were excellent. It was as well ordered a kingdom as he had ever seen, and though Tanith itself was not free of petty crime, there as something about the people that suggested that punishment was so excessive as to discourage it. There was an army, and a city guard but in the quieter areas they seemed scare needed. The citizens lived and worked in an industrious and well behaved manner which seemed strangely unnatural.

The Emir was feared. That in itself was not uncommon. Vanimórë himself had been feared as Sauron's Slave and as Prince of Sud Sicanna; most rulers were. Yet in Tanith, the strange placidity of the populace, so at odds with their their thirst for the Games, hinted at something deeper.

Vanimórë could see into the Emir's mind and there was nothing unusual there: love of wealth, of power, a taste for beautiful women and young men, cruelty, coldness, calculation. But there was something within that mind which he could not touch, and since he would not rest until he knew what it was, he bent his will upon it. He was a Power, he should be able to see all that was within the mind of Taraluk.

It was not long before he realized that it was the same sense of obscurity that clouded the isle out at sea. He had considered that some natural occurrence of current and weather must cause the island to be perpetually shrouded, for he had seen many odd weathers in his long life. The fishing fleets and trade ships avoided it, but this could be due to reefs or rip-tides. From the heights above the lower city it could be seen clearly, an everlasting fog bank which never moved, which the sun could not penetrate. What puzzled him was both that he could not see within it, and that it was almost as if the mind and eye was encouraged to slide away from it.

One peculiarity about Tanith was the lack of any public punishment. He had seen many in his life: heads upon spikes over the gates, bodies left to rot inside cages, crucifixions, criminals staked out on the ground for vultures, and hung from gibbets. Everywhere he had ever been to had some form of execution which deterred miscreants.  
Here there was nothing. Presumably the city guard arrested thieves and cut-purses and imprisoned them, but there was no evidence of hanging, beheading, burning or any of the other methods of dealing with those who broke the laws. It was unlikely that they were simply fined and released.

Vanimórë could have sat and unraveled the great frothing, seething mass of minds with a Vala's power, but the minds of Men and Elves were so complex, so constantly moving, so confusing, that only the uppermost and most powerful thoughts and emotions were easy to read. The bursting bubbles of sentient thought created a snowstorm charged with lightning and in any event, what would be left to do, if one simply knew? It would mean nothing left to talk of, nothing to use one's on logic and reason on. Vanimórë preferred to live as he had always lived, insofar as he could.  
There was something here, something which laid fear on the people, and having nothing better to do, he decided to discover what it was. Something was swallowing, discouraging, or blocking his new and immense powers. But what? Sauron was gone, Morgoth had been consigned to the Void long ago. And he doubted it was the Mother.  
Instinct and curiosity prevented him from simply asking one of the citizens. That would be too easy, and he had time. This could be interesting, and perhaps it was more than chance that had lead him to Tanith.

~~~

The city gates were closed at sundown. Any traveller unfortunate enough not to reach Tanith before dusk must either camp or lodge for the night at one of the roadside inns. Vanimórë ensured therefore, that this night they were outside the city when the horns blew. Elgalad loved the stars and already he felt enclosed by walls and crowds and the three rooms at the House of Palms.

''Soon, I will have something finer for thee,'' Vanimórë promised. ''With gardens and flowers.'' He laid a hand on Elgalad's shoulder

They had walked south along the cliffs. A briny wind stirred their hair as they gazed at the southern stars, huge and blazing. Leagues away, the city still exuded a muted hum but here was only the star-sheen and a half-moon.

''I thank thee, my l-lord. But I am n-not complaining.''

Vanimórë drew Elgalad back against his chest and wrapped his arms about his waist, aware of that dark-shrouded isle which ever sought to turn his mind away from it. The silvery hair gleamed under his eyes. He could feel the tremors of need which Elgalad sought to control and the increased beat of his heart.

''Hast thou noted the isle? The one seemingly covered with cloud?'' He murmured.

''An island?'' Elgalad sounded confused. ''Where? There are m-many out on the b-bay.''

''This one is different, I have not seen it when it was not concealed by fog.''

There was a pause.  
''I... th-think so.''

''Think so? That is interesting,'' Vanimórë kissed the top of Elgalad's head. ''We will ride up here in the day. I will show thee."

~~~

''Oh, yes. It looks l-like...a s-sea mist, low c-cloud?" Elgalad glanced at Vanimórë, then back out to sea. " Yes. H-how strange. Everywhere else is c-clear."

''It has been so since we arrived.'' Purple eyes fixed upon that point with a fierce, bright challenge.  
_ Thou doth not wish me to see, dost thou? What hides there?_

~~~

Since the grey of dawn, crowds had been entering through the north and south gates of the arena. The poorer were seated lower down, the nobles and merchant princes need not arrive so early, since their own seats, shaded by silk awnings and laid with cushions, were waiting for them. Above the tunnel where the warriors marched out, the Emir would sit with his chosen household. Already slaves were there lighting incense, spreading goatskin and velvets.

The pits were uncovered now; rolling, greased logs were suspended over fire, boiling pitch, and spikes whose tips were smeared in poison. Snarls and bellows issued from barred gateways behind which the wild animals were caged. The warriors waited for their names to be called, their time to come.

Vanimórë was still robed and veiled, a tall, silent figure, whose eyes gleamed eerily through the slot of his turban as they passed over the others: men in armor, or in none bearing every kind of weapon, from almost every race he had ever known. There were lithe warriors from the far East, with dark, slanted eyes, burly men with Northern blood, perhaps slaves or sons of slaves, tall, black tribesmen wearing copper and long braids, gold skinned people of the northern deserts. Some checked their weapons, oiled their bodies or prayed to whatever gods they worshiped. Others boasted and laughed, over-loud, stoking courage. When the doors were opened and their names called, they strode out into the roar and heat beyond and the rest were left in the light of flickering torches.

No-one approached Vanimórë. It seemed to be a code that no man speak to another, unless invited. Certainly there was little to be gained in being friendly to some-one whom one might kill or be killed by.  
He leaned negligently against the stone wall, until the the sun once again broke into the dimness. The victors of the last bout entered, and the dead were dragged in by their heels.

Those who had won were not the same men who had gone out. They were wounded, exhausted, triumphant, some were shaking with relief. One or two who had survived other matches were calmer. They took watered wine and oranges and cleansed themselves and then sat with bowed heads.

~~~

"Do not come this day," he had told Elgalad. ''I will feel better if I know thou art here, and I do not want thee to watch me butchering men for fame, but this seems this easiest way to do what I must do.''

~~~

Vanimórë's name was called along with seven others.  
He was matched with a massively built bald warrior with skin the colour of rich earth and cold black eyes. He wore a huge brigandine and overlapping plates of metal on his thighs, carried a mace and chain and bore a short stabbing sword in a housing. His smile, white and fierce, turned to the veiled opponent as he strode out.  
Slender white hands unwrapped the turban and cloak, folded them neatly, and Vanimórë followed him.

There was a murmur from those he passed, widening eyes at his appearance, both human and alien. He looked beautiful, yet lethal as a sword and there was an unmistakable aura about him that any soldier would recognize.  
He was a killer.  
His hair, pulled back from his face and bound in one long braid, brushed the backs of his knees and caught bluish glints of light as, with the other fighters, he turned, looked up at the Emir and then bowed.

Beside the ruler, albeit at a lower elevation, sat a young man, dark and strikingly handsome, black hair cut short, clasping his face in feathery wings. A rich circlet adorned his brow and his robes were silver and scarlet. He was sipping a heavy goblet of wine and looking ostentatiously bored, although this was a facade; his interest was piqued enough for him to lean forward and observe the black-clad contestant as he walked like a great cat toward the center of the sand.

Prince Khanad's eyes turned to an older man seated further away. He raised his brows and received back a faint shrug.

''That is interesting.'' The voice brought his dark gaze to his father.

''Sire?''

''That tall one. Pretty for a Death warrior, no? Too pretty. He shall not be so pretty when he is dragged out, will he, my son?''

''No, sire,'' Khanad responded obediently, although he commanded the Tanithian army and knew an experienced fighter when he saw one.

The crowd muted their welcoming roars to a lower mumble as the fighters fell into battle-ready stances.  
There was a blur in the air. Khanad did not even see the strange warrior move his hands before they held the hilts of two slender scimitars. He blinked and leaned forward to watch. ~


	10. Two Threads

(Written By Anwyn)

 

~ The hood was pulled from her head. Anwyn was briefly reminded of the falcons which Imrahil used to hunt, their hoods removed before they took to the skies, but Anwyn knew she was not about to be released. A strong hand grasped her chin, jerking her head upwards and turned it this way and that, studying her closely. The man's dark features remained completely impassive, as he looked toward the leader of the sea wolves, who reclined upon a couch. The man spoke something in a tongue she did not understand and the other hurriedly replied.

"Wash her." The man snapped his fingers and servants who waited silently nearby came forward and lead Anwyn away. She was lead through halls where the air was thick with , sweet incense and into a small chamber with a single copper tub stood upon white tiles. She felt a flush upon her cheeks as she realized that she was expected to undress before them. Of all that had happened to her this day, modesty should have been the least of her concerns but all the same she sought to cover herself as best she could, keeping her back turned. It was the last bit of dignity they permitted her, as the moment she had sank into the waters they were upon her.

Soaps and scented oils were added to the water as the servants hurriedly washed her and worked at the snarls in her hair, combing them through before gathering another bucket of fresh water and rinsing it. Anwyn choked and sputtered before being drawn up, rubbed dry and then ushered from the room. Scandalized by her nakedness before the eyes of these men, she stood awkwardly, one arm folded across her breasts and her left leg carefully crossed over right. With her other free hand she covered her private parts as best she could, glaring at the men from behind the curtain of her damp hair.

The man circled her but did not touch her, merely studying her as one might a horse or some other creature of worth, looking at conformation and searching for faults. At last he halted and with a nod of apparent approval he turned to the one who brought her. That one's relief was obvious by the greedy smile evoked, no doubt,m by the thought of coin, and as simply as that, she changed hands once more.

While Umbar was now a land officially under the rule of King Elessar, who had long ago outlawed slavery, old habits died a long, hard death. In fact slavery still went on openly under other names; pleasure houses stocked women from many lands who had not come there willingly. Great profit could be made from the traffic in human flesh if one were bold enough to risk the chance of being caught and charged under new, strict law of the king. And there were many bold enough. Slavery was too lucrative a business, and money brought contacts and discretion as well as lives.

One of those men, and arguably the wealthiest for he had not changed his business since the War of the Ring, was Elkanah, owner of the house of a Thousand Flowers. it was a well known place for those who could afford the steep price of Elkanah's *flowers.*

Anwyn had been unwitting thrust into this world, and did not yet understand, for she was not addressed directly but herded like a milch-cow. Hustled to another room as ornate as the first, she was given a thin linen robe which she quickly drew about herself.

There were other women here, dressed in the same loose robes and they spoke quietly amongst themselves or reclined upon couches, resting. The open, airy atmosphere of the room seemed a mockery to Anwyn, whom had immediately looked for a window to slip through, but each was barred with metal screens fashioned to mimic patterns of leaves and flowers.

The door behind her swung closed with a heavy clang and was locked; some women glanced up at her scant interest before turning away. There was something that troubled Anwyn about their manner which, she realized was their very placidity. Their eyes were flat, and they did not evince either joy or fear.

Choosing a place apart from them, Anwyn drew her knees towards her chest and lowered her head. It would not do to weep but tears rose unbidden to her eyes nonetheless. All that she loved had been torn away from, and now she was a prisoner once more, perhaps in an fairer cage than the dreadful ship's cabin, but a prisoner all the same; never had she felt so helpless.

But the threads of fate were ever in motion, drawing many smaller ones into the greater tapestry, and this day they spun forth a short, squat man named Jabal who came clutching a heavy purse and with a particular intent in his mind. He paused as the litter reached the brow of the hill. Before him lay, after a very long journey, The House of a Thousand Flowers.

One of the gate guards mounted high above called something and the wooden gates very slowly creaked open to permit him entrance.

The rich scent of jasmine and orchids hung heavily in the air, and Jabal breathed deeply of it, glancing around at the gardens where the flowers in which the estate was so named for were in full bloom. For a moment he lingered, before hurrying on, eager for the cool shade and cooler wine. Jabal had sailed far from his home and while this task was by far his favorite, and he felt blessed and honored to be sent on his lord's behalf to find more woman to grace his bed, it sobered him to remember what the consequences could be were he to fail to choose correctly. And who knew what would please his lord from one day to the next? He was a man of a capricious temper and cruel ways.

Elkanah welcomed him and escorted him down a long marble hall. Whilst Jabal was a mere servant, his master was exceptionally wealthy, and this alone was enough to afford him far more respect than the average go-between would receive.

"Your master is wise. I have many women who I am most certain will please him." Elkana was however, a little surprised to think of some-one traveling thousands of miles just to purchase a woman. This little man's lord must have very refined tastes, and many contacts.

Jabal nodded, feeling his palms grow damp and sweat running down the sides of his tunic.  
"Merchants have spoken of your famed House, lord," he simpered as he was lead into a large chamber. And there, after staring, he exhaled a long breath.  
This was going to be far more difficult than he imagined. Elkanah had spoken truly. All the women gathered were lovely. They displayed themselves with practiced provocation, for they knew that it was better to be bought while they were young and beautiful. If they grew too old and were not chosen they would be cast to the streets to starve. He took time to study each one. His lord his master had bid him to buy several women if possible, and had given him more than enough gold.

Then he saw her. The woman that stood out like a golden lioness among dark panthers and she alone did not acknowledge his presence, she did not turn to towards him or even raise her head. A fine veil of pale golden hair covered her, Jabal felt his throat dry for he knew how exceptionally rare women such as these were. Wordlessly, he raised a hand and made a gesture towards her. The eunuchs dragged to her feet and brought before him.

"Your timing is fortuitous," Elkanah murmured. "This one has only been brought to us this very afternoon."

"Is she clean? Not poxed?" Jabal asked.

"I would not have her if she were poxed, you should know that," Elkanah replied calmly.

"How much?"

Elkanah's gaze slid down to the heavy coin purse that hung at the man's side. "How much have you brought?" he asked with a broad white smile.

 

~~~

 

The man's anger rage rolled out in him like a dark mist. Elphir still remained standing as tall as his bonds would allow and watched with a hard unflinching expression as Ýridhren prowled the space like a caged animal, running the knots of the whip through his fingers and smearing his hand with blood. The prince of Dol Amroth had been stripped off all his garments in an attempt to make him feel vulnerable, and now long red lashes marked his chest and back.

"You have taken everything from me!" Ýridhren howled as he spun back toward Elphir. "My home! My wealth….my daughter!" His tone and expression softened slightly as he thought of the child that he was forced to leave in his flight, but there had been no time to bring her and he regretted that. Ýridhren loved very few people, but his daughter was his jewel, and the former Swan Knight had been outraged to learn that she was under house arrest; dangled as bait for him to return to Dol Amroth. Ýridhren was far too clever to take such bait, and he had hired Ishbak and his crew to capture Elphir and bring him to these lands.  
He enjoyed acts of cruelty, and it came in many forms, but much to his disappoint he saw that flogging the prince did not bring him to his knees nor wring any cries from him. Elphir had, however, begun to tremble from a combination of exhaustion and pain, and large bruises bloomed upon his flesh. It afforded Ýridhren some satisfaction at least to see the noble, elegant Elphir thus afflicted.

"What has become of your wife?" he hissed, watching Elphir's eyes widen, seeing that firm jaw set harder. He knew that he had touched upon an exposed nerve and would continue to press on it.

"I know what has become of her," he taunted, his eyes flashing maliciously in the dim light.  
"Slavery." The very brought a trill of delight coursing through him. Ishbak had told him that by sheer chance they had caught and brought the woman as well and Ishbak had quickly sold her to another known to deal in such affairs. A good move. The man must be rewarded.

There! The Prince had indeed flinched. Ýridhren, delighted, continued almost gleefully: "You know what becomes of those women, as well as I. How many do you suppose have had her by now? A dozen? More?"  
With a savage snarl Elphir threw himself forward, though Ýridhren had expected that. He thrust out a foot, sending the Prince crashing to the floor. Kneeling forward, he ran a hand in a tender gesture through the dark hair.

"Do not grow angry with me," he cooed. "For it is not I who has betrayed you. Rest now, We have a long journey before us to reach Tanith." ~

 

~~~


	11. Blood And Lilies

(Siân)

_ Close out all all sounds, all sensation, the mutter of the crowd, whose concentrated hunger is like the hum within a beehive; step into that inner place of stillness, and calm. Let the reflexes take over._

All skilled warriors learned to do this; Vanimórë had learned in the most brutal of training-schools. It was instinctive now.

There was nothing but he and his opponent, facing one another. The dark man was light on his feet for one of his size, all solid muscle, and he was not young; he had survived other contests, scars showed pale against the brown skin. His eyes, too, held that detached focus and he held the mace easily.

Vanimórë could have slain him in a heartbeat, but the man was worth more than that. And this crowd desired to see more. Tanith was a city of secrets, and there seemed no way to enter the ranks of those who might have knowledge of its mysteries than to become a famed Death Fighter.

In one smooth move, the man swung back the mace and leaped forward, spiked ball whipping through the air. It would have stove in the ribs had it connected connected. But Vanimórë was not there. He whirled aside, turned to the motion into a pivot on the balls of both feet and slapped the flat of one of his blades across the fighters back.

Too experienced to show chagrin, the other turned, flicking out the chain for another strike, drawing the short sword. The weapon bit down, meeting the scimitar in a crash of steel, even as the second sword flashed out catching the butt of the mace and knocking it aside. The crowds roar grew as the black-garbed warrior seemed to easily, even casually, simply not be wherever the huge ball aimed for. In the royal seats, Prince Khanad turned to the Emir as his father spoke one word in an ancient tongue.

''_Edhel._''

''Yes, Sire, that is what I thought. Although I find it hard to believe my eyes.''

Taraluk's beringed fingers gripped the carven arms of his chair tightly, his body tense in its purple and gold, his eyes unblinking.

_ Elf, _ Thought the Prince. One of the Elder Race, ageless, beautiful, perilous, or so it was said in Tanith's legends which had been carried from the island of Númenor. Long ago, seafarers had made landfall at a fishing village on the coast. Some had remained, and a town had grown, then a city-state. They brought their skills and knowledge, their customs and tales, and even now, the Emir and his highest nobles claimed – and truthfully – Númenorean blood.

_ I believed they were myth, _ Khanad thought with a frisson in his blood. And from those nobles whom had heard the word, it was repeated, whispered, rippled out, until it hissed through the vast crowd on a buzz of astonishment.  
_ Elf._

Vanimórë cast one summing glance over his shoulder and began to lure his opponent on. A smile flashed in the black eyes, for behind Vanimórë was one of the great pits, this one of burning pitch under greased rolling logs.

Vanimórë turned and leaped.

The crowd's roar exploded as he landed, jumped again and came down facing the fighter. His feet moved faster than the eye could follow as he kept his balance, but it looked effortless; there was no strain, no concentration to it, as he beckoned, unmistakably, with one quirked eyebrow.

The mace whirled and was thrown. It was impossible to miss some-one who was trying to keep themselves from falling between the treacherous logs into the pit below.

Vanimórë flipped. It was a dancers move, an athlete's. His upper body bent back smoothly, with perfect timing, and the mace hissed across the space where he had been standing. Then his long legs followed its passage to bring him upright again.

On their feet now, the crowd cheered as again and again Vanimórë somersaulted backward until his feet struck the sand on the further side of the pit. His opponent, not risking the logs, raced around the edge of the pit, and ran into a blade which caught his own, and then snapped away. Its twin decapitated him.

The headless body stood for a moment, before it sagged and fell, and the acclaim of the crowd was a wave of noise, a showering of flower petals and silk scarves. There was not one mark on the Elf, no blood, no stress in his bearing or eyes. He strolled from the arena, only casually pausing to bow before the Emir, before vanishing into the tunnel.

Taraluk beckoned to a tall slender man, with hooded eyes and a mouth closed over secrets.

''Find out who he is,'' he murmured. The spymaster nodded and slipped away.

The victors of that day were to fight at the next Games, which formed the core of the Great Festival in Midsummer until, eventually, there would emerge one victor alone. Already bets were being laid, and much coin put on the Elf, which word was running like a bush fire among the crowd, increasing the intrigue and interest. The general populace whispered garbled tales, while those whose power and bloodlines gave them access to the truer knowledge considered what they knew.

''So, there are two of them?''  
Khanad sent a mosquito skittering with his fan of scarlet feathers, a fashion among the wealthy of Tanith, but not one without other uses. Spies were rife, and they were spied upon by other spies, until it was quite impossible to tell who was serving who, and passing on information to which noble. All had a price, save Nothtar the Spymaster.

On this bright morning there would be those watching who could lip-read, as well as those with very keen hearing, and Khanad would be observed. The Emir trusted no-one, least of all the only son that remained to him, born two year after his eldest was lost in the war which saw the downfall of the Dark Lord.

The far south of the Harad was separated from the north by ranges of rugged mountains, which had ever given these regions a greater sense of independence, even from Sauron himself. But nominally, at least, he was worshiped and Taraluk had sent a contingent of soldiers to the war.

None returned, although Khanad had come to suspect that if any had survived, they had chosen to make their lives elsewhere. He also suspected that the Emir had been more than glad when Sechinar had been lost.

There was no queen now. She was dead these thirty years, like so many other women who briefly shared Taraluk's couch. Prince Sechinar had been her child, Khanad's mother had been Prime Concubine at the time of his birth. She also was dead. The women of the Seraglio did not last long, only while they were young, fresh and beautiful.

''So the innkeeper at the House of the Palms says, both go veiled, but the other is a male, none have caught a glimpse of him, to know if he is Elf also, or Man.''

''Nothtar will find out, he could find a black diamond in a mine. Fascinating....so, they took ship at Umbar. Our oldest tales say that the Elves lived in the north, and the uttermost west.'' The Prince considered, a gleam in his deep grey eyes. ''The way he fought...we may have a new Champion come the Great Festival. I would speak to him, Gthar.''

Gthar inclined his head.  
''I will arrange it, my lord. There was no sign he left the Inn last night, or entertained anyone, which is...unusual...''  
He turned as a rotund figure bustled into the scented gardens, bowing low as he stopped.

''Well Jabal?''

''My lord prince, the women have been shown to their quarters.''

Khanad shot a white smile at the older man.  
''Ah, the day grows yet more interesting. This one always chooses well.'' He snapped the fan shut. ''Come to me when the arrangements are made, Gthar.'' He turned and outstripped Jabal's shorter strides as he entered his wing of the palace.

To keep many women was not a Númenorean custom, but it was one embraced all over the Harad and in the East, also. Khanad had been permitted to choose his first Seraglio at sixteen, and although his women were not many in number, they were very fine. At times, his father would choose from them; there was nothing the Prince could do but acquiesce.

Behind the screens and high walls, Khanad's women were well treated, but maneuvering for power and attention was as common here as anywhere save in Taraluk's Seraglio, where the women did their best to escape notice. To the Prince, they were all desire to please, perfume and allure. At night they would array themselves in their main chamber and he would go among them and choose one or more to entertain him for the night. And yet, even these, he did not trust. The Emir's reach, and his creature Nothtar's, were long.

Guards pushed open the doors and Khanad walked down a wide hallway, which opened into a sunlit room with a long colonnade that fronted gardens. Beyond lay bedchambers, and since their lives revolved around the coming of night, most of the seraglio still slept. Their slaves and eunuchs would attend them when they rose, and then they would begin the long ritual of bathing, perfuming, robing and dressing their hair, as the long, hot afternoon took them ever closer to the evening.

Thus it was, that save for the guards, and the Chief Eunuch, who would already have examined the new arrivals, there were only five women here. They had been bathed and clad in diaphanous shifts of wild silk which lay like mist over their charms, so that the Prince might more easily assess them.

He paused, experiencing the second shock in two days, at the sight of one of the women. Tall and tawny she was, hair pale gold and rippling down her back, eyes shades lighter than his own under dark lashes and precise brows. Her carriage was regal, graceful and positively bristling with rage.

''Gods, Jabal, you found me a Northlander,'' he approved. ''See Gthar, he will reward you well for this.''

Jabal fawned, but he was sweating. The Northlander should have gone to the Emir, but the man knew that Khanad would pay him more generously. It had happened before, and Taraluk had so many women delivered to him that he might not notice, and certainly would not show his appreciation with a substantial tip. Neither would the spymaster concern himself overmuch; all Khanad's woman could be appropriated for the Emir. In any event, Tanith was becoming too dangerous for Jabal's liking. He had money and meant, under the guise of business, to sail for his home, one of the Shards of the Sun, the islands to the east. Once there, he would gratefully spit in the direction of Tanith and start up his trade afresh.

Khanad was oblivious to Jabal's thoughts and would not have cared had he known them. He was gazing at the blond woman. In a land where darkness was the norm, she stood out like a tall lily in a field of poppies. And those poppies folded to their knees, but the lily did not move, her bright eyes meeting his own.

''You will kneel to the prince.'' The Chief Eunuch raised his cane.

Khanad's hand came down upon it.

''Cease. Do not mark her,'' he said.

***

  



	12. To Pluck A Gilded Lily

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ The silks the women about her wore rustled as they dropped to the ground. Anwyn merely turned to face the man whom she found somewhat to her surprise, was startlingly handsome. The Chief Eunuch cried for her to bow and raised his terrible cane. She had already twice felt its bite, and braced herself, but the young man put out a hand and halted it. It was the first time in months she had encountered kindness, but she remained wary.

The Prince made a gesture and turned away, his robes trailing behind him in a flutter of gold and crimson. The guards started toward her and Anwyn balked, but they seized and propelled her down the hallway.

The room she was taken to was opulent, the floor covered with heavy rugs and incense burned, its scent seemed both oppressive and seductive. The guards retreated, and she sprang after them, her hands grasping at the door-handles, but the click of a lock sounded with finality from the other side.

A hand touched her shoulder and Anwyn came sharply about. Her hand, raised to strike, was caught and firmly held and her eyes met those of the handsome young man - a figure of some importance she gathered by the way the others had acknowledged his presence.  
“Release me,” she commanded and when she was, she made no move to strike again.

A slight smile curved Khanad's mouth. Never before had a slave dared to order him, indeed never before had a _slave_ so boldly met his gaze.

“Who are you to command me?” he demanded taking another step forward and Anwyn pressed herself further back against the closed door, as though attempting to sink into the wood. He was so close she could smell the spicy musk of soap.

“I am Anwyn,” was all she could say, knowing that a mere name would be of little consequence, but to her surprise the creases of his eyes crinkled with amusement and he drew back slightly.  
“Anwyn,” he repeated as though wished to savor the name upon his tongue. She nodded.

He raised a hand and the tips of his fingers trailed down her cheek. This time Anwyn did not flinch away and reluctant warmth blossomed within her. It was a small caress and for one who had for months been dragged about as a cow, struck and mistreated, it was far more than a mere touch. She had been corralled from one area to the next, put aboard another ship at Umbar and endured what felt like weeks or months of voyage. There had been sickness and smells and the terrible uncertainty of what lay before her _(and where was Elphir?)_ If there was touch it was to drag and pull, or to hurt. This soft touch gave her back her humanity, but the man could not possibly understand that – or perhaps he knew all to well. His eyes were wise, and Anwyn felt a wave of shame wash over her. There was something in his features that reminded her somewhat of her husband, but she could not hold to that as an excuse for her sudden softening.

“Anwyn,” Khanad stepped forward, running his hand down the elegant throat, feeling the quick flutter of the woman’s heartbeat.  
“I could have you whipped for attempting to strike me,” he told her dryly. He knew he was watched at all times by spies of his father, and could not afford to permit such insolence from a woman of his harem, or indeed any who served him.

Her gaze was defiant. She was bold, perhaps too much so Khanad thought, but she was intriguing, and so very unlike the other woman of his harem. Anyhow, he was not a man who enjoyed cruelty, and he would not be the one to break the blond woman's spirit. _But,_ he thought bitterly, _Women here never last long. Not if they go to father's bed._

He had, anyway, paid for her, and she could not remain untouched. It negated her very purpose here. He leaned forward to kiss her and her warm lips surprisingly parted. Her response was eager, Her back arched and her body pressed into his, her hands touching him with sensual promise. He could imagine her a wild lover who would give pleasure just as gladly as receive it.

_No._ Khanad fiercely reined-in his desires, feeling the throbbing ache in his groin. He imagined lowering her to the heavy rugs, taking her...yet if he were to do so now, she might fall with child, and if so would be removed. If he were pleased with her, she would begin to be given the tincture that prevented pregnancy, but unless he had her names added to the rolls, the servants would not begin that process.  
He had been unlucky with children, and blamed it on himself; too many women had died giving birth, and the babes were sickly. They too, died. There was another possibility, of course, and one which he dared not consider...

There was something in the woman’s eyes, something more than beauty. If it was within his power Khanad would protect her a while longer and not have her succumb to the same fate that had befallen others.

“You have angered me,” the Prince announced stepping away from her and making a dismissive gesture “Remove yourself from my presence until which time I call for you again or decide upon your punishment.” With the ease of long practice, he infused arrogance into his tone as he spoke.

Two guards entered, bowed to him and took the woman away. Khanad maintained an indifferent attitude, which came as naturally as the arrogance. He caught a brief glimpse of the woman’s startled expression - she appeared confused, and rightly so Khanad thought as he turned away, calling for a servant to bring him wine, and to the Chief Eunuch to register her. Well for her. The less she knew of this place, of its many terrible secrets, the longer she would live - or so he hoped. ~

  
~~~


	13. The Players Of The Great Game

(Written by Spiced Wine)The hours passed with desperate slowness for Elgalad. He had agreed he would not go out, not call for wine nor food, and to remain veiled.

The city seemed oddly quiet now, although here in the House of Palms, servants were in a flurry of business preparing food for later. Every room was taken, and tonight much wine would be drunk and coin be spent. People had streamed passed the inn in the morning, on foot, on horseback, carried in curtained litters, and when the matches began in the arena, Elgalad could hear the vast gathering there clearly. It was a sound which unsettled him deeply.

He knew he need not fear for his lord, yet still he did, it was instinctive, perhaps foolish. Vanimórë had survived thousands of years, he had told Elgalad briefly of his training in Angband and the Games in Númenor. He had not even worn armor this day, but his usual black leather, and had been relaxed, even a whit bored, as if he were about to tackle a tedious task.

To distract himself, Elgalad thought of his friends so far away; Glorfindel, Tindómion, Legolas. He missed them, but they did not need him. They had those they loved, as he was with the one he loved. And most of the time he was almost sure he was loved in return.  
Vanimórë still withheld himself, and Elgalad burned with the need to be possessed wholly. Just the thought of it caused him to groan in discomfort, and he paced to the screened windows, poured wine, sat without drinking it, then jumped as a colossal wave of sound from the arena billowed outward across the city. He rose, heart pounding.

_My lord? _

There was a silence, before the calm: _ All is well, I am returning. _

Relief coursed through Elgalad. He loosed a long sigh.

Vanimórë lost those who clustered about him, waiting outside the chambers where the fighters convened after their matches. People swore that he could not have left without being observed, but somehow he did. There was no power involved, just many years of practice.

''I told thee all was well.'' He kissed Elgalad's head and drew him down on the scattered cushions.

''Let m-me get thee w-wine.''

''Order fresh, chilled,'' Vanimórë agreed. ''Stay veiled, draw the screen across.''

Elgalad pulled the light barrier over and rang a bell-rope. In a short time a woman had returned with cold wine. When she departed, slipping a silver coin into her skirt, Elgalad unloosed his head covering.

''The time for obscurity will soon be over, although,'' leaning on one arm to drink, Vanimórë's eyes traced over the fair features. ''I would prefer it if thou wert not ogled by those we will come in contact with. They think I am Elf and they will seek to know who I am. They will find where I stay, and then,'' he sipped the wine. ''it begins.''

''What b-begins?'' Elgalad sounded puzzled.

''The Games. There are endless games here, and what they cover, I cannot guess. Not yet.'' He drained the goblet. ''I will bathe.''

As he rose, Elgalad quickly surveyed the tall figure; grains of sand clung to boots and leather, but there was no visible wounds.

''I was not hurt.'' The rich voice was almost sad. ''I fought a man, and he was a fine warrior. He deserved more recognition and a death more honorable. A man, like any man, doubtless with his own dreams of wealth and fame. And I killed him, as I have killed so many others. I felt nothing. It was just a job.''

Elgalad touched the taut shoulder. ''Let me m-massage thee.''

The purple eyes warmed.  
''I am not weary, Meluion.''

''Still, even thou must n-need to rest.''

Vanimórë laughed softly. ''It is only an excuse for thee and for me. But come then.''

Elgalad knelt on the edge of the tiled bath and unwound the great braid of hair, washing it with scented soap and then pouring jug after jug of clear water over it. Stepping from the bath and drying himself, Vanimórë drew his hair over one shoulder, wringing it out, then stretched on his stomach, head pillowed on his arms.

Elgalad combed his hair aside, warmed oils in his palms and proceeded to work over the muscles of the back and shoulder. The contentment at being this close, being able to touch, warring with the thudding arousal within him. It was always thus. His breath shivered through his lips as he sat back and Vanimórë turned over, his expression matching, exactly matching, Elgalad's own hunger. He was engorged and magnificent in his desire, and Elgalad let his fingers stray down, curl around the pulsing warmth, which was silken and hard as a steel bar. Hearing the groan which Vanimórë could not repress intoxicated him. His hair fell onto the hot flesh as he lowered his head, wanting to taste...  
Vanimórë's hands buried themselves in his hair before Elgalad could touch, and pulled his head back.

''No.'' Violet eyes flamed with both anger and longing – and Power. ''I want it, but I will not have thee do that. Thou art not my pleasure toy, and it would give thee nothing.''

''Thou knowest it w-would give me p-pleasure.''

''I had to do that too many times to see thee before me thus, like a slave.'' He came to his wrapping a towel about his hips, remote, stern, now. ''Get up, my dear.''

''I am sorry.''

Vanimórë drew him close.  
''If I listen carefully,'' he said. ''I can hear my father laughing at me.''

~~~

The invitation came that evening. This time Vanimórë would not leave Elgalad, but both went in veiled. They were conducted by palace guards for the message had come from the Prince. It was not uncommon for Death Warriors to provoke interest among the nobles and receive invitations to their homes and this one, already named the Dark Elf, had piqued the fascination of the very highest in Tanith.

The palace was a glow of soft lamps. Elgalad caught glimpses of courts, gardens and long colonnades as they were lead through a series of chambers and halls to a guarded room.  
It was splendid; different marbles had been set in the floor and in niches, urns and – a delicate touch – silver and gold bowls spilled flowers. It was beautiful, but there was something about it which proclaimed the person who used this chamber to be a man of action and intelligence, not one to loll among treasures.

A long seat had been built into the wall above the dais, and covered in seal-skins and soft pillows of scarlet and silver. On this sat one man alone. The Prince.  
There were few in the room save he: slaves, an older man with a thin, fierce face, and a veiled woman wearing a circlet of gems about her brow. On a low table of precious lemon-wood was were kraters of fruit, meat, bread, and jugs of wine.

The guards retreated. Either the Prince was unafraid, or others were within call or observing. Vanimórë saw at once that the older man was a killer, he carried at least three knives on his person and was coiled to move at an instant. Likewise, the jeweled dagger at the Prince's belt was far more than an ornament.

He and Elgalad inclined their heads and bowed in the Elven manner.

''Welcome – or , I believe, in the old tongue of your folk it is _ Mae govannen?_ Or do I have that wrong?'' The Prince rose courteously. "It is something seen in very old scrolls. I apologize, if I have mangled a beautiful language."

''No, that is correct, prince,'' Vanimórë responded. ''It is said that long ago Númenoreans settled these coasts. Among those things they brought was their tales of the Elves, and the Sindarin tongue.''

''So our books of lore say,'' Khanad gestured. ''Will you and your companion not be seated?''

''I thank thee.'' They sank down on soft cushions. ''We were not searched for weapons, which I find incredibly lax, or was no need?''

The Prince smiled a little. ''In Tanith, we are never lax, warrior. And would it not be pointless, after what I saw today, for any weapon to be taken from you? But every movement you have made from the House of the Palms – and within it – has been observed. There are few secrets in this city.''

_ Oh there are many secrets, _ Vanimórë thought. Spy-holes. He had not considered that at a public inn. This place was more paranoid than he had imagined.

''Then thou wilt know we go unarmed,'' he said.

''We know. Now will you not uncover, unless it be against your beliefs, or some such thing? But all saw you today in the arena.''

With a shrug, Vanimórë removed his head covering, but his hand went to Elgalad's shoulder.

''I would rather he not. Like thy woman, he is highly prized.''

''He is Elf also?'' Khanad could see only pale shining eyes. ''As you wish.'' He was fascinated. The dark Elf blazed, white skin, blue-black hair, eyes like jewels, beautiful and terrifying, for all his urbane manner.  
And for his part, Vanimórë saw the blood of Númenor in this prince, still running true after so long. Fine, straight features, thick, glossy hair, dark eyes under fine brows and a mouth which could both command and smile. An intelligent young man, and wise beyond his years. Under the gorgeous robes, his shoulders were straight and wide and his hands, although they bore rings, were not soft, but accustomed to handling weapons.

A silent servant poured wine and a taster stepped forward, taking a mouthful and rolling it on his tongue before swallowing and bowing. The prince waved a hand for his guests to drink.

"The city hums with speculation about you," he said. "An Elf who has come to Tanith to compete in our Games." he sat back. "Many believed your people had passed into legend, and I myself doubted any existed in these days. But no-one could mistake you for a Man.The way you fought...impressive.''

''I am very old. I have fought for a very long time." The reply was dismissive.

''Well, I hope to see more of it.'' Those purple eyes were as opaque as the jewels about his concubine's brow, the Prince thought. ''So you will be here for some time, at least until the Great Games?''

The modeled mouth moved in a smile holding the most complete assuredness and a spice of mischief.  
''Prince, I will _ win _ the Great Game.''

It surprised a laugh from Khanad.  
''I almost believe you.''

''I would ask something.'' The curling lips still held that smile, and the Prince said, amused:  
''Ask.''

''What is the mist-shrouded isle to the south?''

And the silence fell like a clap of thunder. ~

~~~


	14. A Slow Unveiling

(Written by Anywn)

  
Anwyn was returned to where the other women waited, while the guards reported to the Chief Eunuch why she had been so quickly returned. She expected, and was prepared for several blows, which she would undoubtedly have received, had not a slave hurried across to him and whispered something in his ear which sent him hurrying from the room. When he returned a short time later, with Anwyn still waiting apprehensively, he informed her, as if presenting her with a priceless gift, that her name had been entered in the rolls of the seraglio of Prince Khanad, whom had ordered that she not be punished, for the moment, since he preferred her skin to be unmarked.

_Prince?_ Anwyn nearly staggered in surprise, she thought him of noble blood certainly, a wealthy merchant Prince perhaps, but not one of true royal blood. A high flush of shame burned on her cheek. She had nearly allowed herself to be seduced, no, she had _wanted_ to be seduced. To once more be touched as a woman _should_ be touched, not beaten and dragged about. Prince Khanad's gentler caress had awoken something within her. Her body had betrayed her.

The night could not sleep for a long time. She had lived in the palace of Dol Amroth and knew that, however noble and valiant Imrahil and his sons might be, or her own kin in Rohan and Gondor, one did not insult noble blood with impunity.

Anwyn was summoned to attend the prince the next evening, for punishment or pleasure she did not know and no-one would tell her.  
Never before had she spent so much time in preparation; she was bathed and her body anointed with oils, modesty was slowly slipping away from her with so many people at liberty to view her nakedness, she realized. Her long hair was combed and braided by quick, deft hands, and another woman wielding small clay pots and a brush applied color to face till Anwyn scarcely knew her own reflection. After, she was dressed in long robes of heavy silk and told to stand perfectly still while a veil was draped over her face. She balked at this, reminded of the hood that had blinded her when she had been taken from Elphir's side, but the veil was not so confining that she could not breath. Through it's mistiness, she saw the Head Eunuch approach and walk around her, saw him rub his beardless chin, and narrow his eyes. He lifted the veil to survey her and uttered a soft grunt of approval, then clapped his hands for the guards to escort her away.

This time she was escorted, not pulled or pushed, and she might have stopped, save where else was there to go, and how could she learn anything cooped up in those chambers of women who seemed to accept their lot and had viewed her with jealousy all this day? Feeling the soft touch of a breeze upon the light fabric she knew they passed through a colonnade, and she heard the metallic clang of weapons which gave her pause, but a firm, brief touch on her back urged her on.

There was the clatter of dishes, a table being set, she imagined, before the sound ceased entirely and she strained to hear the soft footsteps that came to a stop before her. Hands drew her down, indicating she was to bow which she managed albeit somewhat awkwardly and she heard a gentle note of amused laughter.

“Very well, be seated. Our guests arrive.”

Anwyn recognized the voice of the prince, the same undercurrent of arrogance and command ringing in his tone and allowed herself to be lowered to soft cushions.

So she was to be a living ornament in this place? She preferred it to being left alone more with the prince. It was safer with company – if there was such thing as safety in this place for her.

The flesh at the back of her neck prickled, and the sensation spread down her arms as though she felt a chill on a warm night. She strained to listen, to identify every sound around her though the thundering of her own heart within her chest grew louder than all else.

There were some things in one’s life that were never, ever, forgotten, and for Anwyn one of those was when she had first encountered Elves. She knew the voice that presently spoke, would have staked her very life upon it, she knew that rich purr, that unique accent that she had never been able to place. Beneath the veil she felt the color run away from her face. At times it had seemed there were no surprises left in the world, but this one had certainly taken her off guard.

_ Companion?_ Anwyn silently repeated, willing the Prince to elaborate upon this, her curiosity piqued already and she strained to see. The veil was easier to see through when some-one came close; now her vision was limited, and she could see only shadows. Whom was the guests companion?  
Intently she listened, just as well as any spy who hid amongst the walls or in the gardens beyond but she had the advantage of being completely hidden in plain sight.

~~~


	15. The Mists Grow Thicker

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

The silence was broken by something hitting the floor and breaking. A young slave, not entirely trained, had dropped a bowl. Vanimórë watched with interest as a glazed look settled over the prince's features, and the eyes of the older man narrowed. Elgalad turned his head. He felt the question.   
  
''Alas, I fear I have said something...untoward.''   
  
Khanad heard the undercurrent of mockery in the tone. But this was not spoken of, it was never spoken of, and most certainly it was nothing to jest about. With commendable self control he reached for his wine and moistened his lips.   
  
''I have seen much of the world, Prince,'' Vanimórë continued, casually. ''Never Tanith, I admit, but I have been in the North, the East, in the desert cities of the Harad. I have seen many strange things, believe me, but never a fog bank which sits over one island and does not move no matter from whence the wind comes.''   
  
Khanad sank back. The unnatural eyes were unwinking on his.   
  
''It is called the...Isle of Plagues,'' he said, eventually, and very unwillingly.   
  
''How delightful !'' At the irony, at the apparent indifference of a subject which was taboo in Tanith, and at the root of all which transpired in the realm, Khanad felt a flare of anger.   
  
''At times noxious vapors flow from the island, over the waters, and bring death to us, a terrible sickness. People die in great pain, bleeding, vomiting blood – you can see why we are not all agog to mention it in polite conversation.''   
  
Vanimórë swallowed the wine and set the goblet down with a small chink which sounded loud in the pregnant quiet.   
  
_Mmm, interesting, but only a part of the tale I think._ The cup jumped in Khanad's hand as he started; drops of ruby liquid spattered onto his robes. He took no notice. The words were in his mind, clear as if spoken aloud. save the guest's lips had not moved. There were many who could speak without moving their lips, it was an art which came in useful in the city, but he had never heard of any-one speaking directly into another's thoughts.   
  
_Thou didst hear me, didst thou not? Nod. Say nothing._   
  
Gathering himself, the Prince gave a bare inclination of his head.   
  
_This is mind-speech, some Elves communicate in this way with one another. None will hear but thee, unless I encompass others._   
  
Khanad's thoughts reeled. In a city where there was no privacy, no secrets, there was power in such a skill.   
  
_Answer me in thy mind, concentrate, say my name as thou wouldst with thy normal voice, but only use thy mind._   
  
_You can hear me? _ Khanad felt a little foolish, and saw the smile in the violet eyes deepen.   
  
_I hear thee. Now thou may be sure nothing thou sayest can be overheard by others._   
  
Khanad drank more wine, only then realizing that the Elf had been speaking aloud even as he used the mind-speech.   
  
''... does this plague occur?''   
  
''It has not happened in some time.'' He collected himself. ''The Gods have been kind.''   
  
_The only so-called Gods who ever sent plague on ill winds are gone._   
  
Khanad made a sign with on hand, a circle with his finger and thumb, signifying a sphere of protection around himself.   
  
_Sickness and death are not the province of the Gods alone. What wouldst thou say if I were to sail to the isle? _   
  
Khanad's eyes widened. "No!" Forgetting himself, he spoke aloud.   
  
''My lord?'' Gthar asked, quickly.   
  
''Nothing. It is nothing.'' Khanad raised a hand. "More wine."   
A slave came forward.   
  
_No. Do not go there. You would not return, and such curiosity might bring punishment upon Tanith. _   
  
_Elves are not affected by mortal diseases._   
  
It was that lurking smile. Khanad knew there was more here that prurient curiosity. His demeanor learned in a deadly court, the prince forced himself, muscle by muscle, to relax.   
_Why should I trust you? There is no more to say. That isle is an evil place. Only a madman would go there of his own will._   
  
_Oh, thou hast no reason to trust me, prince. Yet._   
  
There was the musical sound of pouring wine and they drank.   
  
"Perhaps all things must be paid for," Khanad said with much-practiced calm. "Tanith is a rich Kingdom, but we live with that island. We pay the price."   
  
Tacitly conceding him this round, Vanimórë smiled and raised his goblet.  
''All things come at a price, Prince.''   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
''The Isle of Plagues,'' he mused later, when they had returned to the inn.   
  
_Speak thus to me, Meluion, and be aware that we are watched. I could find the spy- holes, but why bother? We will play this by their rules. For a while, anyway._   
  
_We will be watched all the time?_ Elgalad asked, uncomfortably.   
  
Vanimórë laughed.  
"I am afraid so." He gently unwound the veil and ran his fingers through the streaming silver hair.   
"There is no point in hiding, my dear. Not any longer." ~

 


	16. The Desires Of A Despot

 

(Written by Anwyn)

Khanad accepted wine but did not drink it. He reclined in the chair in the ante-chamber as he tried to collect his thoughts without the gazes of so many upon him. Gthar and the woman also waited in the same silence.

Khanad had permitted Anwyn to cast back the veil she wore, once they had entered the room, but such was the wight of her eyes upon him he was tempted to order that she wear it once more.  
It was curious that the woman alone seemed untroubled, although perhaps not. After all, what did she know of Tanith? Gthar was on-edge and checked his weapons reflexively as if reassuring himself he could protect himself and more importantly his prince. Khanad watched as the woman’s eyes slid to Gthar’s knives and and then away, as though gauging her chances of taking one. Who was she, Khanad wondered?

“I do not like this,” he broke the silence at last, remembering with a chill how the dark Elf had spoken directly into his thoughts.

“I do not trust them” Gthar murmured, though that was not quite what the Prince had meant.

“You should.”

Gthar whirled upon the woman.  
“Silence!” he hissed. She had been so silent and still that it was easy to imagine she was one of the usual adornments of his lord's chambers, not a stranger.  
“You do not speak, slave!”  
The woman’s eyes flashed and Khanad saw this as a warning that she was about to do something foolish.

“Peace, Gthar.” Khanad’s tone was calm though his gaze upon the woman was intent.

“Would you trust these…_Elves_, Anwyn?”

“More than I trust you!” she flashed back hotly.

“Then that,” Khanad replied, smiling “is to say very little”

In the gardens beyond, a warm breeze shifted the leaves of the palms and stirred the scent of night-blooming flowers. A shadow drew itself up from its place of hiding and hurried from the gardens.

  
The Emir was rising from his bed drawing on a crimson robe as the man ran into the room and prostrated himself, pressing his forehead to the floor.

"Forgive me, I am not worthy to come into your presence, High One." Trembling under his sweat-soaked robes, the man kept his eyes down as Taraluk regarded him coldly. It was a punishable offense for a servant to meet the Emir's eyes, and all in Tanith knew what that punishment was. The spy did not look, either, at the broken body of a woman who lay crumpled upon the floor in the center of a spreading puddle of blood.

The Emir was able to acquire women for his bed and harem as easily as most men could purchase a loaf of bread, and devoured them as fast. They were treasured for as long as they pleased him and those who aged or angered him tended to disappear in the night, like so many others before.

After witnessing the death-match, Taraluk's blood had been running hotly, and he had called his favorite concubine into his chambers so that he might quench his dark desires. She had not lasted long, or pleased him well, having become too accustomed to his favor. Once she had been beautiful, if grown a little too lush on sweetmeats. There was nothing beautiful about the body, the congested face and blood-filled, staring eyes.  
Again and again he had taken her, not tiring easily, and her screams delighted him until at last he had strangled her and slit her belly, feeding his other burning desire - the sight of blood.

The spy quickly recounted all that he had heard and seen this evening, from the arrival of the two mysterious guests to the exchange he had strained to hear between the Khanad and the woman. Taraluk raised his brows, and then chuckled without humor. It was rare that the prince took a step without his father being aware of it; many spies that prowled the palace and moved as though they were vermin within the walls, unseen.

"Have her brought before me," Taraluk ordered. Khanad was a fool to believe he might possess anything his father could not appropriate. The Emir even counted his son amongst his possessions, and everything in Tanith was his by default of what he was. It would not be the first time that the Emir had dipped his hand into Khanad's women, because he was entitled, and because it reminded his son that there was nothing Taraluk could not take from him should he chose to.

Taraluk had also been intrigued by the appearance of an Elf at the games. Many fine warriors had fought, and died upon the sands of the arena through the long years of his rule and not one had ever provided such a show of skill and grace.

"What else?" The Emir pressed impatiently.

"Nothing more, sire." The man shivered.

"Then go." The Emir made a small dismissive gesture with his hand and the spy rose, bowed, backing to the door and vanished, glad to be free of his masters scrutiny.

"Enoch."

Great fear kept many loyal to the Emir, but there were very few that Taraluk trusted in return. Enoch was one of them. He had faithfully served since a young man and undertaken many unsavory tasks. He appeared to have no ambition whatsoever other than to serve his master, but he had become a powerful man in Tanith and accumulated no little wealth. Even the high nobles did not cross him, though Enoch was a commoner and secretly despised.

“See that this new prize my son claims for himself is brought before me.” Enoch bowed, his face impassive, and swept from the room. ~  


  


~~~   


  



	17. She

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

If the spies of the Emir sought for the Elves later that night, they were disappointed. Vanimórë took Elgalad away from the city, to the hills where the rains watered the wines and the hot sun swelled the grapes. Lying back, he watched the stars, which gazed back, burning, into his eyes.

''Is it t-true, my L-Lord, about the...isle?'' Elgalad murmured, his head resting on the hard chest.

''Truth and lies are woven together in this place,'' Vanimórë replied, thoughtfully. ''I have seen cities stricken with plague, men believe it dwells in bad airs, or creeps from graves, but few truly know. One thing is certain, no disease has a mind which sends it or withholds it. Plagues come and go, but they believe here that some malignant power chooses when to loose this sickness upon them.''

''The p-prince said there h-had been no plague for a l-long time.''

''I would call that simple chance, but that island...'' Vanimórë sat up slowly, letting Elgalad's head slip gently to his lap. ''It is as if my gaze is swallowed up by more than the fog which lingers around it.''

Elgalad's eyes were unwavering on the hard face above him.  
''But shouldst thou b-be able t-to see ... anything?''

''I think so.'' A shrug. ''There are limits. Even Morgoth had limits. But I should be able to see any power unless it is as strong, or stronger than me. On Arda now, there are only two others who could hide something from me, and I see no reason why either would.'' He drew his fingers lazily through Elgalad's spill of hair. "I wonder..."

At the long silence which followed, Elgalad, his curiosity stirred even as his desires said softly: "What, my l-lord?"

''Darkness. I have not the light to shine into it, but I know some-one who does,'' Vanimórë suddenly smiled. "I would give much to live in such a melting pot of passions, wouldst not thou?'' His hand moved to cup Elgalad's face, feeling the heat of a blush ''There are people there who love thee.''

Elgalad raised himself.  
''I w-would go there with th-thee. I am thine, my p-place is with th-thee.''

_ Forever._  
The word rang oddly flat in Vanimórë's mind.  
_ And forever I cannot possess him. I think of the ways I could take him, delight him, mold him absolutely to be mine...until he becomes nothing more than an odalisque. All that innocence will fade from him. He will be nothing but an adjunct to me, something I own, without even his own will, desiring only to please. _

''I told thee that I would not leave thee again. But thou knowest how this matter must rest.'' The words were almost harsh and Elgalad bowed his head. Vanimórë longed to draw him against his breast, comfort him, but dared not.

''The P-Prince...'' he said quietly. ''Dost thou t-trust him?''

''No indeed, but I think his position is a dangerous one, and he will be useful. And no doubt he sees the same in me.''

''Dangerous?'' Elgalad looked up. ''Is h-he not the m-most powerful man in Tanith, after h-his father?''

''He should be,'' Vanimórë replied. ''But things are far from normal here, Meluion. I know what it is to be born the son of a great ruler, one whom will not share power and has no intention of ever letting his son step into his boots. The Emir looks young, well-nigh as young as the Prince. It may be Númenorean blood that causes it, but there is something... _wrong_ in that one, and I would wager all my new powers that it has something to do with that island.''

  
~~~

  
In the darkness of his chamber, Taraluk waited. She came to him each night after the dark of the moon. Perhaps it was as well She did not come more frequently, for she both gave pleasure and drained him. But when he woke the morning after, he was renewed. He saw it in the unlined complexion, the dark hair without a hint of grey thread, in his strength of his body.

It had been seventy-three years ago that She had first come to the new Emir, promising him a lifespan far surpassing any Mortal in return for so little. She asked only that criminals, slaves, orphans, the dregs of the kingdom, might be taken to the Isle and left there. In return she would grant him longevity, and would withhold the deathly plagues from Tanith. That plague did come was a matter of record, and was dreaded, and Taraluk had readily agreed to Her terms.  
And so it was that each dark of the moon a vessel called the Black Ship sailed from a secluded harbor and unloaded its cargo upon the Isle. None of the sailors ever stayed to see what happened to them, but terrible screams could be heard floating out of the clinging fog as the Black Ship rowed away.

Each time she appeared, she was different. Tonight she was tall and golden haired as she stepped from woven shadow. Only her eyes never altered; they were an inlay of Nothing, without iris or pupil, and the lovely face was expressionless.

This woman did not die in his arms. She was wild, ravenous, straddling him as if She would take him whole and devour him. She rode him until he was sheened in sweat and lay panting, but She never uttered a sound. Her skin was white as a dead thing, the veins showing black beneath it. She was both gorgeous and repellent, intoxicating and sickening as some overblown flower that wept rotting flesh.

Images broke through his exhausted mind. The banner of Tanith carried high over legions marching north, new lands, greater power and wealth, himself an Emperor over all of the South and reaching further...

_ Use the Elf,_ The dark, hollow whisper was in his mind.  
_I have seen him. Make him thy creature, thy Warlord. He knows War. _

There was much She did not tell him and some things She did not see herself, for those with Power could hide it, and Vanimórë did so. But She would use any-one, and She also did not share Power. This man, greedy, arrogant, she had made use of and she would make the same use of many more as long as they provided her with what she needed.

Food.

With the dawn she was gone, and Taraluk slept as a dead man, waking to the new dream.

  
**God-Emperor. ~ **

~~~


	18. Cursed By Beauty

(Written by Anwyn)

  
They had come for her in the hour before dawn, like thieves in the night.  
Anwyn had drifted into the uneasy sleep that had marked all the nights since her capture in Dol Amroth. She unconsciously wrapped her arms about herself. It was a gesture of both protection and comfort, for while she feared for herself, her greatest fear was for Elphir. She had faith in his strength and intelligence, and she believed that he could survive many things, but she had less hope for her own ultimate fate.

Jerked rudely awake by a hand covering her mouth, she was drawn, struggling, to her feet, and her eyes wide and round with fear. This was why she had not wished to sleep. A scream welled deep in her throat, her feet struggled to make purchase upon the floor as she was both carried and dragged along like a sack of grain.

Other women had been awoken by the faint sounds, but they looked away at once, grateful that they were not the one chosen to be taken. Those whom had been in the prince's seraglio longer than Anwyn, knew that when this happened it was not Khanad who summoned them. They would not raise their voices in protest, they would not even raise their eyes. Anwyn was coming to understand at last that in these lands she was truly alone.

The Chief Eunuch was awake, but he stared blankly at the wall as Anwyn was hustled past and on, down wide passages, up a flight of curling marble steps to wider hallways. Anwyn thought fancifully that the guards became less willing to go on, as though their will was slowly being leeched from them.

Double doors were slowly drawn open, and to Anwyn they seemed the jaws of some great beast awaiting its prey. There was one man alone who did not hesitate, who did not seem to fear whatever lay within and he strode forward grasping Anwyn’s arm, drawing her forward. Part of her hoped that Khanad would await her, for he had proven himself kind, but part of her doubted it; this was far from his chambers.

The room was filled with the thick lingering smoke of incense and the first rays of sunlight glinted off the metallic threads interwoven into the heavy rugs which were soft beneath her bare feet. The light filtered into the room through gaps in the heavy curtains, leaving much of the space in shadow, but she could see enough and was taken aback. Never had she seem such an accumulation of wealth and luxury collected in one room. Perhaps this was the desired effect: to awe whomever entered.

Something stirred within the shadow of the room.  
“Leave us.”  
The grasp upon her arm fell away. The guard bowed deeply and strode from the room, rather quickly, she thought. The deep booming voice seemed to reverberate from every corner of the room, press down upon her from each direction. The touch of dread was as an icy hand closing slowly about her heart.

A man came into the light. He was very tall with dark hair and fair skin. Anwyn fought to scold herself for feeling such fear over a mere man, as though she had been expecting a strange creature to stalk from the shadows, yet her fear did not lessen.

He wore only a chamber-robe which had been left carelessly open, allowing her to glimpse the strong, well defined body, and an erection which jutted out proudly. She quickly averted her gaze, scandalized, but the man seemed to feel no shame in his obvious state of arousal before her.

“I have been expecting you,” he spoke as though she were merely a guest who had accepted an invitation to join him for a meal. “You are the my son's latest favorite, it seems. Come closer.”  
Anwyn could not move. She stood straight-backed and tall though it was all she could do to hold herself up. It was clear enough what he wanted, and she would have run but for the fact she feared he would be on her the moment she turned away.

“Now.” He commanded. Reluctantly she took a step forward. Ever sense screamed at her to flee, but she had no where in which to run.

It seemed as though the man wished to devour her with his gaze alone. His eyes raked across her, and she saw when she dared to look that his eyes were dark grey, and lightless, otherwise he bore a very strong resemblance to the men of Dol Amroth. Yet there was something in his countenance that was quite different, darker.

With the swiftness of a striking serpent, the man seized a handful of her hair and jerked her head back. Anwyn braced herself, eyes flickering across his face and for a fleeting moment their eyes met. The fingers that wove themselves into her hair clenched tighter and she could not repress a hiss of pain.  
“Númenorean blood...” His breath was warm against her throat and Anwyn fought not to make a sound, swallowing her fear, trampling it down. Some instinct told her this man wished to inspire fear, enjoyed it and she would not allow herself to show it. Her eyes blazed back at him.

She did not understand his comment. What had that to do with why she was here?

“You are strong, You shall endure,” he muttered and Anwyn’s brow knit together in confusion.  
_What?_ she was about to ask as the man’s lips then crashed down upon her own and she released a muffled cry of surprise.

It happened so quickly that Anwyn’s thoughts fled from her like startled birds taking to the wing. The light night-gown was torn from her and she was thrown back upon the bed, and then the man, dark and terrible was upon her _within_ her. There had been no time to react, and she cried out, more with surprise than pain and this seemed to further incite his desires terrible desires as she was savagely taken. She felt the warm trickle of her own blood at the viciousness of the rape, but she did not utter another sound. She closed her eyes and fought to send her spirit elsewhere, shut it away from this mans touches which disgraced her.

He snarled as he withdrew from her abused body, and it was the sound of a rabid animal. As she lay wilted and crushed before him, he reached out and turned her upon her stomach, fingers digging into the skin of her hips and drawing up as with a growl he drove his full length into her, stretching and tearing virgin flesh. Only then did Anwyn scream as her entire world exploded into white hot agony. This pleased the Emir immensely and granted him renewed vigor as the woman beneath him whimpered and wept, desperately trying to drag herself from him. Thus he took her, feeling the shudders of the unwilling body driving him further toward his release.

Anwyn’s fingers grabbed vainly at the sheets, tearing at the fabric. She thought the terrible pain was tearing her apart and she screamed until her throat was hoarse and she could make no further sound.

At last, with a shudder and sated growl, Taraluk released his essence and released his grasp upon the woman who fell forward limply and curled in upon herself. She held to consciousnesses by the narrowest of threads as every nerve of her body cried foul against it’s abuse.  
_Oh, by the Gods! It hurts!_  
Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. The great shame of spirit had not yet fully come down upon her; the pain of her body was greater than all else.~

~~~


	19. Is This What I Was To Be Ilúvatar?

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
~ Dawn brought a guard from the palace to the House of Palms, requesting that both Elves accompany the prince hawking. The note which accompanied the soldier was couched politely and sealed with Khanad's own ring. Vanimórë was amused by the delicate balance between a Prince used to command, and some-one unsure of how to treat a potential ally.

''I will come,'' he said to the guard, whose eyes showed a flicker of surprise, since one did not refuse an invitation from the prince of Tanith. ''My companion will remain here, however. I will join thee in one moment.'' He closed the door on the man and turned to Elgalad.  
''Try and relax,'' he murmured. ''My mind is always on thee.''

Elgalad reluctantly nodded, and raised a hand. Vanimórë took it.  
''I _ always _ know where thou art. Trust me.''

''I trust th-thee, d-dear lord,'' Elgalad smiled, sweet and delicious, drawing the hand to his cheek.

''I will be back before noon. Call for me if thou doth need me.''  
Leaving his swords, Vanimórë buckled on a thigh sheath bearing a dagger, pinned a black cloak at his shoulder, and strode out.

The shadows lay long and black, the air was fresh. Tanith and its environs were beautiful; the ocean sparkling, the hills green, the air echoing to the cries of gulls. Looking down the road, Vanimórë saw the hidden isle far out, and his eyes narrowed, before he turned his back on it.

~~~

Khanad had slept little, although he had sent Anwyn to the seraglio, before spending many hours closeted with Gthar, who was the only person the prince trusted without reservation. Their relationship was a long one, dating from the time a young guard had saved the ten year old Khanad from the bite of a venomous snake placed in his bathing room. Gthar's sister had been one of the Emir's women and had gone the way of all of them, including Khanad's mother, simply disappearing one night. Brother and sister were close, and Gthar was so anguished that he almost ignored the call for help, but his sense of duty was strong. He entered the chambers to find Khanad backing slowly from a cobra, and when its attention was caught by his entrance, he pushed the child to safety. The snake struck, but it's fangs impacted on his own mailed calf, and his sword quickly dispatched it. He called slaves to dispose of it, and found Khanad desperately trying to control his tears of relief. Uncharacteristically, he had put an arm about the boy's shoulders and soothed him, realizing that some-one wanted the prince dead, young as he was. The normal habitat of those deadly creatures was not the city.

As the Prince grew, Gthar had seen in him a spirit of fairness and integrity, which all too soon would surely be swallowed up by the intrigue of Tanith – _if_ he survived. With that in mind, Gthar began training the child in weapons, and Khanad proved to have great aptitude. He was far more a warrior than his older brother, lost in the great battle of the North, and there was even a hope that he might become Emir one day.

Yet Taraluk lived on. Gthar watched the years pass and leave no mark upon him. Black sorcery, many whispered, and usually to themselves, for such thoughts were treason. It was becoming clear that Khanad would die as soon as his usefulness came to an end, or he became too too great a threat to his father. He commanded the army, and was popular; Taraluk was only feared.

''A fair morning.'' Vanimórë bowed over the saddle to the prince, who was accompanied by several young nobles of his court. Four guards flanked them, stone-faced.  
''I thank thee for thine invitation, Prince.''

''I am glad you accepted it,'' Khanad returned formally, as they rode from the ward of the palace north into the tended lands where game birds were stocked for the pleasure of the Emir and his court. A white gyrfalcon from the north perched on his gloved wrist, the fierce head covered by a hood, and the falconer had brought a peregrine for Vanimórë. It settled almost instantly, and the beaters spread out into the trees to startle the game into flight.

''Your companion is not with you, Vanimórë.''

''Neither is the woman thou wert with last eve, Prince.'' the violet eyes crinkled in amusement. ''Elgalad is my charge, one might say, and he is far from his home. I would not expose him, just as thou wouldst not expose thy ladies.''

''Women do not accompany us hunting here," Khanad told him. "You do not wish to expose your ward to the city?'' He raised his brows ironically. ''You will gather fame as an orchid gathers bees, Elf, it is so with all Death Fighters if they capture the capricious attentions of the people. And you will. You cannot hide and no more can your ward.'' He was curious. ''He is your lover?''

''He is my beloved, but not my lover.'' Vanimórë added wryly: ''He is too good for the games I play, Prince. Too good for the games played here.''

''Such moral strength,'' the words were gently mocking, ''withers in Tanith, you will find. You do not favor women, then?''

''Oh, yes indeed.'' A white smile gleamed out. ''I have far more choice that way; I always find _some-one_ whom is...willing.''

Khanad laughed, causing the courtiers some way off to regard the two with interest, wondering what this portended. This new Death-Fighter was already favored by the Prince?

''I see your point. But in Tanith, we take what we desire.''

"Truly?" Vanimórë's brow quirked. ''If that is so, then thou wouldst have taken the woman who was with thee in the palace.''

Humor faded from the Prince's face.  
''Do Elves read minds also?'' he snapped.

''I... _ we,_ have many hidden talents,'' was the smooth reply. ''As well as some more...visible ones.''

~~~

Elgalad was roused by a knock, hard and curt. He blinked, felt for the loosed veiling and rose, twisting it about his face and neck.  
A guard stood outside the door. He was from the palace, Elgalad saw, recognizing the scarlet enameled helm, the intricate gold inlay on the breastplate. The man was hard-faced, cold eyed, and his voice was clipped.  
''The Most High commands your presence.''

_My lord?_ Elgalad thought, _There is a guard here from the Emir who wishes me to go with him._

_I see._ Vanimórë returned.  
_ It will be all right, Meluion. Go, I will join thee, no harm will come to thee, I promise. We are both players in this game now. _

''Very w-well.'' Elgalad fastened his veil more securely before following the guard down the steps. He saw servants halt in their tasks, stare and draw back at this representative of their ruler. Outside, two more soldiers waited with a spare horse for Elgalad, who mounted uneasily, and saw them flow around him as if to form a barrier either for his protection, or more likely, to prevent him from riding off. He felt uncertain, and alone, as he ever would be in places of Men, with their noise and thronging crowds.

_Peace, my dear, _ Vanimórë's voice was like a hand on his heart, a gentling caress. _ I am always with thee, I have sworn it._

~~~

Taraluk's breath came fast in the ecstasy of violent pleasure, and he was still excited by the groans of the woman as she lay curled in upon herself.  
Blood marked the rich silks and his own skin, but the scent of it was forever associated with sex in his mind. _She,_ he could not hurt – other women, he could and did.  
He swallowed a goblet of chilled wine and at the knock, a frown fleeted across his brow, before it cleared. He drew a loose robe about himself.  
''Enter, Enoch.''

His servant silently slipped through the door, and closed it behind him.  
''As we thought, your son is with the Dark Elf, Sire. I have brought the other.'' He indicated the next chamber with a nod of his head.

''I trust he is comfortable?'' Taraluk drawled, his gaze moving again to Anwyn. ''That one...she pleases me, Númenorean blood runs strong in her. She is yet young, she will give me strong sons, freshen our bloodline. She will be Queen.''

Even the impassive Enoch was startled by this. He regarded the bruised, bleeding woman with an interest provoked not by her sufferings, but by his ruler's intentions for her. He bowed.  
''You wish this to be proclaimed, Sire?''

'' At – shall we say, noon today? She will be crowned on the first day of the Great Festival.'' A look of gloating anticipation shone in Taraluk's eyes. ''I think she will be fertile.''  
She was strong; he had had women faint before now. This one had not, although she had screamed and even now, sought to muffle her sobs in the pillows.

''Make sure my son knows she is no longer to be touched,'' he advised.  
Wondrous futures were unfolding within his mind, Emperor, sons he could use, the Dark Elf carrying his banner further and further in conquest.

Immortality...

He strode into the next chamber, his eyes coming to rest on the fair Elf. Without preamble, he strode across and pulled the veil away from his face.

Elgalad's apprehension had mounted as he was brought here, and he was certain that he heard the sound of some-one in pain. When the Emir entered, disheveled, hectically flushed, and came directly to him, he stiffened, and gasped a little as his head covering was drawn away.

His hair fell loose in a flurry of silver which half sheeted his face, and sank back against his thighs. His eyes showed startled and wary, and Taraluk gaze's drank him in from gleaming hair to his booted feet. Utterly different to the dark one, yet just as beautiful. Here was none of the negligent pride, but a more gentle elegance. Somewhere within him, She hissed intrigued. It had been long since she had tasted the blood of the Elder Race.

Behind them Enoch, who had drawn the woman to her feet, and cast a cloak about her, lead her from the room. She was bent over, an arm about her stomach, pale hair spiraling over her features. Elgalad, seeing the posture of suffering, stared at her in horror. What was this place where a guest might be shown such things as if they were without importance?

Taraluk dragged his eyes away from the Elf and said: ''Have her bathed and tended. She is _ very _ special to me, Enoch, let that be known. I stress that, most...strongly.''

At his voice, the fair head rose a little, and Elgalad felt himself pierced by shock.  
''Anywn?''

Without thinking he leaped across the room toward her. Enoch, appalled at this breach of courtesy, intruded himself between the two of them and was sent reeling back against the wall by a thrust that winded him.

_ My lord? My lord, the lady Anwyn is here in the Emir's chambers and he has...hurt her ! _

The flashed back response was immediate and so strong, Elgalad wondered that no-one but he heard it.

Vanimórë turned in his saddle, and his eyes burned as they looked at the Prince, who stared back, startled.  
''How dost thou come to have the Princess Anwyn in thy seraglio?'' he asked.

''_What?_'' Khanad exclaimed, in an almost exact echo of Vanimórë's shock. ''You _know_ the Northblood? ''

~~~

Elgalad could not comprehend this. He had last seen Anwyn in the North with her husband. How had she come to be so far from her home?  
''How d-dare thee!'' His usually gentle voice was filled with fury.

Picking himself up, Enoch drew a long blade, but then the Emir, with an odd smile in his eyes, flung up a hand. It was not his own thoughts, but that dark, hungry voice in his mind.

** _He can be of use, like the other. I want him. Touch him not. _ **

''She will be my Queen, Elf,'' he said, suavely.

''She is free-born, and noble ! She w-will _ never _ consent to b-be thy Queen !'' Elgalad almost spat, hearing the swift warning from his Lord to say nothing of her true origins.

''Noble-born? Excellent, I knew I was not deceived by the gold of her head,'' Taraluk exulted and Elgalad, staring at him, knew he was mad.  
''Great events are in motion for Tanith, and for you and the dark one. You see a Queen who will bring forth many sons for the service of this realm.''

''Put her down!'' Enoch growled, trying to reassert his authority. ''The person of the Queen apparent is not to be touched by any save the Most High.''

Elgalad stepped back, holding her closer.  
''She is h-hurt, she needs to be t-tended !''

''We have many healers and it is hardly a hurt, she will recover,'' Taraluk said and then, expansively. ''Enoch, let this Elf carry her to her prepared chambers.''

_ He is insane, my lord! _

_ Yes, I am sure of it. Go along with it, Meluion. Naught will harm, thee, I will be there soon. _

The hawking party were galloping full tilt back to the palace even as Vanimórë spoke.

_ We play this their way, it is the only way I can discover the truth._

_ But Anwyn! He raped her, my Lord!_  
Not far from the Emir's opulent chambers a series of other rooms had lain empty for long years. Watched by a seething Enoch and three guards, Elgalad laid Anwyn on the great bed and smoothed back her hair.

~~~

''I would have saved her this,'' Khanad hissed as Vanimórë flung himself from the saddle. He was furious. Gthar had met them in haste, having only then learned that the Emir had sent for the Northblood woman. By then it was impossible to extricate her.  
''I would not mistreat her!'' He laid a hand on the taut forearm, rigid with corded muscle and started at the heat which seared through the skin.

''Take thine hand from mine arm.'' The order was flat.

''You cannot walk into his chambers, no-one does so, it would earn you death,'' Khanad whispered intensely.

''Elgalad is already there.'' Humor touched the violet eyes. ''Death? Thou wouldst not believe the places I have walked into, and left – alive.''

At that moment, one of the Royal Guard approached them and bowed to the Prince.  
''You are commanded to join the Most High for refreshment, Elf.'' His voice became more respectful as his eyes turned to Khanad. ''Alone, my lord.''

The dark eyes flashed sparks, and he heard the voice in his mind, velvet-rich:  
_ My move in the Game, I think, Prince. _

''I would be delighted,'' Vanimórë replied, following the guard.

***

Some-one had brought wine. Elgalad slipped an arm under Anwyn's shoulders and raised her, holding the rim of the goblet to her lips.

''Anwyn, d-drink.'' His voice was gentle. Where was Elphir? he wondered.

''Beautiful, is she not? A fitting Queen for my growing Empire.'' A hand moved in his own hair and Elgalad stiffened in revulsion.  
''The stars are propitious, my wise ones tell me. A woman of the highest blood and two of the Elder Race...all of you have roles to play in what will come to pass. Your..._companion,_ fights like a demon. And perhaps you do also, or are you used for... relaxation?'' A hand on his chin jerked his face about. His eyes met the Emir's unflinchingly.

''Sire, the Dark Elf.'' Enoch spoke from the doorway.

''Is here, and at thy service, Sire.''

Vanimórë looked like a great predator as he stood there. Somehow, he gathered the eye as a magnet draws iron filings. It was in the force of the stare, the carriage, the certainty that no matter how things might appear, it was he who was in control. His eyes flicked to Elgalad's, who felt them like a reassuring kiss, and then to the woman, and only those who knew him well would have seen the harder glaze lock in place over his features.

''Ah.'' Taraluk turned, waiting for the bow, which came, but in such a nonchalant manner that even through his joyful madness, he was annoyed. ''You are called Vanimórë? Quite a display you gave to us, in the arena, Elf. One wonders why, your race has faded, why indeed, it never conquered the world, if all fight like you.''

''Oh, we may yet,'' Vanimórë smiled icily.

''You are a great fighter, but any peasant can brawl. Perhaps, if you have more than luck and speed, we may find a use for you. We will see, in the Great Games.''  
The Emir crossed to him and had to look up into eyes which he could not meet. They seemed to hold a brilliant, cold light in the center, like a cat's eyes in torchlight. Taraluk's own slid away, over the swirling tattoos.  
''Your..._friend_ is mannerless, but we may be inclined to forgive him. He knows my Queen-to-be, it would seem.''

''I know her also,'' Vanimórë said.

''It is true she has the blood of Númenor?''

''True enough. It is there for those with eyes to see.''

_ My lord, do something! _ Elgalad pleaded.

_I will do something, my dear, not as Morgoth would, and not as mine own sire would. Canst thou not feel it? Something moves under this one like maggots under dead flesh, and I cannot see what. No Power will aid me ! I will play this game as they play it here, to unravel these tangled threads. _

Taraluk's smile was filled with satisfaction. ''Fair, strong, fertile...'' his eyes roamed her, then moved to Elgalad.  
''We will observe how far you go in the Games, Dark Elf. If you live , if you win...there will be a great future for you in Tanith.'' He looked back. ''I will keep your companion.''

Elgalad's head snapped around.

Vanimórë said: ''No.''

The Emir drew in a long breath through his nose, his fists clenched in the sleeves of his robe, but before he could speak he was rendered inarticulate. Like a dancer, the black haired elf moved around him, behind him, bent his head, and whispered in his ear:  
''_ I _ can give thee so much more, offer so much more pleasure, Most High.'' His voice was a deep purr and it brought waves of desire surging up through the man to harden him instantly. Perspiration misted on his brow and suddenly he knew, without possibility of contradiction, that the black haired Elf _could _ give pleasure beyond imagining – as She did.

''Let the woman heal, and prepare herself for her future.''  
Enoch was frozen rigid by shock as he watched Vanimórë's lips touch his Master's neck, registered the responsive quiver as Taraluk's head tilted back and his eyes closed.

_Ai, my dear Lord ** NO!**_ Elgalad's words were stark with abhorrence.

Vanimórë spun lightly aside to face the Emir again, and said, gently to Elgalad:  
_ I will not let him have thee, and by the time Anwyn is crowned many things will be clear, I think. This is almost the heart of this web, Meluion, there is nothing else I can do. _

_ Save be the whore I always was. _

''You will lodge in the palace.'' Taraluk's voice slurred as if he had drunk himself into a stupor. ''Enoch, send orders that rooms are to be prepared, now.''

Elgalad bent his head. Tears burned in his eyes.

_Oh, my beloved Lord, why, WHY? You have Power ! _

_And yet, some things are hidden from me, my dear. The One must have known what I do best, no? Stay with Anwyn, none will touch thee. _

The door swung closed as the Emir and Vanimórë left the room.

~~~

Silent, hurrying slaves had stripped the bloodstained silks and replaced them with fresh ones scented with perfume, and now the chamber was empty again. A calming spiral of incense rose from a brazier, further scenting the air.

_ Ar-Pharazôn,_ thought Vanimórë, as his hands went to the laces of his black vest. He had thought it since seeing the Emir in the arena, looking down at those who would fight and die for the pleasure of a crowd, for _his_ pleasure. The last King of Númenor had been corrupted by Sauron, there had been no mystery there. In this man, there was, and it was hidden so deep, or by something so powerful, that even Vanimórë could not recognize it. Perhaps, more importantly, this was the only way to turn aside Taraluk's lusts from Elgalad and from Anwyn. He had no doubt he could do that; he had, after all, sustained the desires of Morgoth and his own father for long enough. But his soul recoiled at this step back into the slavery which he had endured for three interminable Ages.

_ I cannot think of that. I will not. _

His mind went to Elgalad, feeling his horror, Anwyn, her injured body protesting at its usage. Slowly, tantalizingly, he drew his vest over his head, let it drop. One after another he pulled off his boots, then slipped down the leather breeches. The Emir's breath came faster.  
He stood motionless as Taraluk walked around him, pulling his hair aside, fingers trailing down his back to his buttocks.

A vision of almost brutal beauty he was, in the room where the sun fell through ornately fretted stone. He closed his eyes, the white skin beside them wincing a little in remembered shame as a hard finger penetrated him.

''On your knees !'' There was a breathless impatience in the command. Taraluk recognized noble blood, and this was an Elf, a myth, magnificent and deadly in combat. And at his mercy. Within himself he crowed with glee.

Vanimórë could have killed him in a moment, unleashed Power and incinerated the Man to ash where he stood. And where would that leave him? Untouched, with Khanad ready to take the crown of Tanith, but no nearer any answers, and if something – some-one – dwelt on the isle of Plagues and was displeased at the death of the Emir, and sent disease across the waters to the city....Did he have the right to remain untouched while others died in their thousands? Trying to read that shadowed place was like trying to punch fog, it swallowed his sight, his powers, gave him back nothing.

His back teeth snapped together as he went down gracefully, still dangerous, still unhumbled. He felt the nudge of the hard member against the tight muscle, and knew what would come. Taraluk was not going to ease his passage with oil. He had not with Anwyn either; no doubt it gave him more pleasure to see blood, to hear the moans of pain. He would remember, after this, to prepare himself, as he had learned in Angband and Barad-dûr.

_ I am Vala._ He felt the too familiar penetration tearing tender flesh as he was entered, and his head snapped back. Memory spun him back into the dark, further with each brutal thrust, at each giggling gasp from the man.

_ I am Vala! _

** Thou wert born to be nothing more than a whore and a slave!** came the voice from the past, so clear it could have been spoken into his ear.

_ No. I am Vala! _   
_ And I am used just as before, taken like a bought whore..._

Pain ground through his abused body. Ah, it _hurt!_ He would heal, he had always healed, but Vala or no he had a physical form which was subject to pain. Yet he knew what this man wanted, what would bring him to faster release,and he arched his back, pushed against the pounding as if eager to receive more, loathing himself more than he did Taraluk.

The man's cries grew louder as he rode Vanimórë harder, faster, feeling him squirm eagerly as a trained concubine, seeing the submissive arch of the back. His hands locked about the slender hips and held them flush to his groin, buried deep between the perfect buttocks, before he felt the rush of his release, a pleasure so keen that his vision grew hazy.

Blood trickled after his withdrawal, blood and essence mixed, the magnificent body trembled, the raven hair spilling over one shoulder, pooled like ink onto the rich rugs.

_ I brought the Silmaril of the oceans to Aman, I walked into Fos Almir, I was chosen by the One! To be **what?** Is this to prove to me that Power at the last, has no meaning? _

Taraluk cast himself back on a pile of silken cushions, catching his breath.

''There is wine there, serve it.''  
Through half closed eyes, lazy with sated lust, he watched as the Elf rose, gracefully and brought the wine, kneeling as he held the cup. His eyes, as was proper, were cast down, long fans of lashes shading them, and they remained so as Taraluk called for Enoch, who entered with a taster. Only then did the Emir take the wine and drain it, before sighing with repletion.

_ He is not afraid of me, how very mortifying, _ Vanimórë thought, cold fury burning through him, anger against the pain, the memories. But he had sensed people within call, and Enoch's weapons were coated with poison. No, he had not been trusted. Taraluk was not stupid. If he chose males, they were observed, and the ruler was an immensely strong man, stronger than most he would choose for his sport.

The Emir said, indolent as a sun-warmed cat: ''If you continue to please me, Dark Elf, your golden _ companion _ will not be touched. Be warned, if you make any move against me, he will die.''

''Surely to be favored by the Emir of Tanith is not something to be thrown away lightly, Sire?" Vanimórë murmured.

_ Play the game. He must not touch Elgalad. _

''That is so, Elf, but one must always be careful. Many are ambitious.'' Taraluk smiled as if at a private jest, his big hand catching a sheaf of Vanimórë's hair and yanking on it.  
''But you please me, and you may go far if you prove yourself.'' He laughed loudly. ''I have more use for you than that pretty arse.''

_ And so did they._ Vanimórë inclined his head on a wave of excoriating self-hatred.  
_ I am still damned...Is that what thou didst want Ilúvatar? A Vala who knew how to be a whore? ~ _

~~~


	20. The Breaking Of A Storm

 

(Written by Anwyn)

~ Anwyn fought to master herself,  to hold back the tears. It felt as though her insides had been shredded by the claws of some wild beast that still wreaked havoc within her. A terrible cramping pain completely overcame her and she cried out once more to the great delight of the one that stood over her, watching her writhe in the restless movements born of pain.

It seemed that she lay now in the quiet aftermath after the breaking of a great storm but there was no peace within. Her thoughts were scattered. She could focus only upon the ache of her body, and the her flesh would eventually heal, her heart she could not yet face what had been done to her.

Taraluk was a tall, strongly built man and even had she been properly prepared for the act it would have been difficult for Anwyn to accept such a joining. She tasted blood in her mouth from when she had bitten down hard into her lip in a futile attempt to hold back her cries. It had felt as if he had been inside her for hours.  
There had been times when she had lain with Elphir where she had felt pain, but never as great as this, and realizing that he had hurt her, Elphir had always seen to it that her discomfort was quickly forgotten and soothed by pleasure. There had been no pleasure here, save on the part of the one who had viciously raped her.

Great though the pain of her body was, shame began to blossom within her and unfurl. Her body had been shared with another man, and it broke the vows which she had made to her husband, and she felt as if those vows had been spat upon and before him now she lay bleeding and no matter that she had been forced. Fresh sobs wracked her and she buried her face deeply into the cushions as the pain rolled through her in waves. Perhaps if she had fought harder, if she had tried to run...but she had not, she could not have; he would have overcome her and perhaps then it could have been a great deal worse.

She would have vowed she could endure anything, but she had not been prepared for this. Even as he had turned her over, Anwyn had only felt confusion until he had slammed his full length into her with one savage thrust. She knew she had screamed herself hoarse, but had not heard herself through the white agony of her body.

It was over now. _It was over._ She strove to draw what little comfort she could from this, to take back a small shred of dignity even as she lay naked on silken sheets stained with her blood.  
_Taken as a dog!_ she thought, digging her fingers into the fabric and fighting to drag herself upwards. Vaguely she heard Taraluk speaking to another.

_Queen?_ she thought dazedly, hearing the word again though it made no sense to her. Was there a queen in this place? Perhaps she had not satisfied the man's twisted lust and he now sent for the queen, may the All father help her.

Strong hands grasped at her, pulling her to sit up and pain spiked through her again like a burning lance, but she was too weak to resist Enoch, and she wished to be removed before the Emir could force himself into her again. Enoch held her so that she did not stumble and fall, though she was loath to feel his touch. Movement hurt her, but she fought to walk, but as she heard the Emir's voice, she flinched. She would have fled away from it had she been able.

Then she heard her name spoken. It had become so rare that it was sweet and precious to hear. The presence of Enoch was removed and replaced by another, and even through the misty haze that obscured her thoughts she might have wept for confused joy. Relief surged through her, for even had she not raised her eyes to his fair features, the endearing and familiar halting manner of speech would have been enough to tell her who this was.

"Elgalad," she managed to say. Her hands were folded across her abdomen, her fingers digging into her flesh. The physical intrusion and her terror had disordered her stomach like seasickness. She tried to breathe deeply to quell the sensation, and caught a new odor. Elgalad had always carried the scent of things fresh and green, of distant northern woods, and she was now sharply aware of this through the oppressive smoke of the incense that hung in the air.

Snatches of the conversation touched her. Again they called her 'Queen' and still she did not know why, though in this condition and at this time, she could hardly bring herself to care. She had not lied to Khanad or even shaded the truth earlier when she had told him that she trusted the Elves and she most certainly trusted Elgalad. She swallowed the wine she was offered, feeling it's coolness sliding down her parched throat, and she stretched her thoughts outwards to make some sense of what it was that happened about her. When she was certain that Taraluk was gone she opened her eyes.

"Elgalad," she said again, as though needing to assure herself that he was truly here and not an image of kindness and comfort summoned by her mind. When he asked her how she had come to be here, she grappled with her thoughts for a moment and had to fight for each word. So many strange twists of fate had brought her here, that her mind still struggled to assimilate the shocks heaped upon it.

"They took him," she told Elgalad hoarsely, around a raw throat, and tried to marshal her thoughts, but great Bema she hurt! "Sea-wolves...slavers...I know not where..."  
Hot tears began to well in her eyes again. In the arms of one such as Elgalad she felt horribly soiled and tainted and so very ashamed. Even were she to be reunited with her husband, how could possibly even begin to explain to him what had happened? That she had allowed herself to become as a whore to the ruler of Tanith? She recognized, through her despair, that she was shouldering all the blame, and knew also that save by killing herself, she could not have prevented what had just come to pass, but her emotions were tumultuous and all she could think of was Elphir casting her off as damaged and whorish.

These thoughts gathered and grew until they threatened to tear her from her very self, all she had been, from _Anwyn._ Once again she fought to speak, though it became more difficult to form the words.

The ubiquitous slaves silently waited, all too accustomed to seeing both men and women treated in such a way, though it had been long indeed since they were summoned to these particular rooms. Although they dared not say such things aloud, silent speculation rose in them. They waited to be summoned to bathe and tend her, but in vain, for Anwyn would allow them near her. In her shame did not wish any to know what had truly been done to her. The humiliation that Taraluk had heaped upon her left her feeling worthless and degraded. ~

~~

 


	21. We Do What We Must

 

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

~ Elgalad struggled to hold back the tears of despair for both Vanimórë and Anwyn. He did not fear Vanimórë would be killed, but he knew enough of the humiliation and pain visited on him through his long life to feel pure horror that such a thing should happen again.

_But he is a Power now..! Eru, **please!** _

His lord, so desperately loved, so strong that it seemed steel would break against his will, so beautiful that Elgalad often stared at him in silent, arouse awe would be abused, possessed by this foul Man...

_My lord!_

For a time only a great silence resounded in his mind, and his heart missed a beat in terror until, strangely flat, the words came.  
_ All will be well, stay with Anwyn, as long as thou canst. _

Elgalad closed his eyes, scoured raw by pain.

_Beloved..._

_ It is all right, Meluion. _

It was _not _ all right!  
Elgalad ran shaking hands through his hair, as he looked at Anwyn, then away as an inner door opened. It appeared there were other ways into this room than by the doorway through which they had entered. A man in rich, somber robes entered, followed by two women in identical blue. The man's face was seamed by thought and hot sun, his mouth folded close, eyes narrow and intelligent. He wore no gem, rare in a place of such wealth, save one great ruby ring on his left hand. The women were in their middle years, large and capable looking, and they bowed from the waist.

''The Most High orders you be bathed and then take food, lady." His voice was brisk. "You are the Queen apparent of Tanith, and your body and soul belong to the Most High. You are in need of salves which will help your...soreness.''  
Nothtar had no orders concerning the fair Elf, but already knew that the Emir had taken the other to his chambers. If he was to be so favored, then it was likely this Elf would be also. The women stepped forward, as if to take Anwyn and pull her up by force and Elgalad moved then.

''She has said she w-wants no-one to t-touch her." His jaw set. ''She c-can bathe alone. Let them g-give her the salves.''

Nothtar regarded him rather as if he were some curious species of animal who had suddenly begun to speak. He was fascinated, but it was a cold and calculating interest revolving entirely around how these new events would impact upon Tanith.

''Women are always attended here,'' he said slowly, as if talking to an idiot. Too many sought to drown themselves to be left alone.  
''She is to be Queen. A terrible shame it would be if she were to...slip and break open her head.'' His smile was soulless as a shark's. Little he cared. Taraluk's obsession with the blood of Númenor was both amusing and harmless.

Elgalad looked him squarely in the eyes.  
''I am Elven, and w-we do not join with M-Mortal's.'' That was not true, but let the man think it. ''I will g-go with her and watch h-her. I know h-her,'' he added, and then: ''Please.''

''Elves do not join with mortals?'' The spymaster affected interest. ''My intelligencers have told me that my lord _ joins _ most fervently with your companion.'' He saw the flinch which passed over the vulnerable face, and stored that information away in one of the limitless rooms in his mind. This one loved the dark Elf, and could not hide it, the great eyes showed deep pain.

''N-nevertheless," Elgalad tried to master his voice. "Thou m-may trust m-me.''

_ Oh, my Lord, my dear Lord, when Sauron was gone thou wert free, and then had power conferred on thee, and now...The wrath of the Valar has changed the shape of Arda before now, thou needst not be used again ! _

And even as he said it, he knew what the answer would have been. Vanimórë could not use his powers; they were too dangerous to the world.

It was more than possible the Emir had the same plans for this silver-haired Elf as for the woman, and the one he was enthusiastically raping. Nothtar weighed thoughts in his mind for a moment, and then nodded:  
''Then take her, the women will show you the bathing chamber.''

Elgalad turned back to Anwyn and carefully picked her up. He knew her for a strong young woman, but he saw her pain, and wished to spare her. Most Elves died when raped, the wound to their souls too much to recover from. Mortals could survive, but that did not mean they felt nothing, only that they endured it.

The two women lead the way into a room where perfumed steam rose from a large, sunken bath. Towels, oils, sea-sponges, and dishes of soft soaps were arrayed around it, and shallow steps lead down into it.  
Elgalad gently set Anwyn down and then, with a glance at the impassive faces of the attendants he stripped off his clothes and stepped down into the bath. He saw no reason to be coy before Anwyn, who needed some-one with her whom she trusted. Stone ledges ran under the waters surface to sit upon and he guided her to one and stood before her.

Bending his head, he kissed her brow, and whispered: ''I am s-so sorry.''

He had never felt quite so helpless, even when a prisoner of the wolfsheads who would have used him and killed him. His hands closed gently on her bare shoulders for a moment, before he turned, presenting his back to her, allowing her a modicum of privacy to cleanse herself.

~~~

Khanad wafted scented air across his face through the perfumed feathers of his fan, and behind it cursed like a common soldier.

''And the woman?''

Gthar shrugged and shook his head faintly, speaking without moving his lips:  
''What do you think? He was... enthusiastic.''

''I wager he was."

''She was hurt. He should let her rest and heal for a while at least and if she is to be crowned queen...he will want her relatively intact. The fair Elf went with her.'' At the surprised silence, he continued. ''I think Nothtar made that judgment himself, no doubt your father has plans for him as well as the warrior. A Queen of the blood of lost Númenor, and two Elves as his favored. My Lord, it is time to speak.''

Khanad nodded. ''Then speak, but carefully,'' he advised.

''Your father is loosing what remains of his sanity. He knows nothing of these three, yet he would honor them.'' The word was pronounced with distaste. ''All will have power and some influence, as long as they please him. The woman...she has high blood, she could have many fertile years left her. He will expect her to bear sons. The Elves? It is said they live forever, unless slain, and by the way the dark one fights, he has lived long, and become highly skilled. Since he has not been slain, and has said he is very old, we must assume that he is better even than he seems, one whom can be useful to your father in other ways than in the bedchamber. Those who saw the fair one push aside Enoch say for all his gentle appearance, he is obviously stronger than any man. Another warrior then? My Prince, with such around your father, how long before he decides that you have outlived your usefulness?''

Khanad met his eyes over the feathers.  
''The thought had occurred to me,'' he said dryly. ''Gods, what game are you playing Vanimórë?''

''What if it is no game? what if he is precisely where he wishes to be? At the heart of the power of Tanith. The spies say he all but seduced your father.''

The prince shook his head briefly.  
''He is a stranger and I have no reason to trust him, nor the woman either, but I would have sworn that neither wanted this.''

''All should be eliminated. The woman would be the most difficult, for surely your father would look to place the blame. It should look like suicide – a leap from a window, perhaps, cut wrists? The dark Elf....well, it may not be easy, but an assassin surely could succeed, and Elves can die.''

After a long silence, Khanad whispered: ''No. She is not to blame, and the Elves? No.''

''My Lord,'' Gthar hissed impatiently, then said more quietly, as if re-living a pleasant memory: ''Your mother was as romantic. She always believed there was good in people, even in your father. The woman is beautiful and...different, and you feel chivalrous toward her, and the Elves are also beautiful and mysterious, but both could be your death.''

''Sometimes I wonder if that would be altogether a bad thing,'' Khanad murmured, wryly. ''My life would have ended long ago and many times since had it not been for you, my friend.''

''Enough maudlin, my lord !'' Gthar snapped. ''If he orders you to the Black Ship there is nothing even the Gods can do to save you.''

The Prince rose, running a hand back through his hair. The smooth olive tint of his face had grown paler.  
''I know.'' He looked up at the rising tiers of the palace, to the screened rooms where the Emir no doubt rested after his sport. Hate flamed in his dark eyes.

_ Dost thou know how men mine for gems, Prince? _

Khanad started violently at the voice in his mind. It was precise and powerful, yet as close as that of a man speaking confidingly to a friend.

_ Vanimórë?_ He thought the name.

_ They go down into the earth, into darkness,and danger, into muck. They sweat and toil and bleed until they see the gleam of raw diamonds and emeralds. Sometimes, that is what one must do._

_ What in the God's name are you doing?_ Khanad wondered angrily.

_ What I have to do. Hast thou not done what thou must, to survive and have such power as you have? There is much thou hast not vouchsafed to me, and I understand, why shouldst thou? I am a stranger. What is the Black Ship, Prince? _

Even the name froze Khanad.

_ I will see the Emir dead. _ the words were hammered out of ice. _ And I will go to the very heart of the web to do it. I will not let Elgalad be raped, nor Anwyn be so used again._

_ Has he said he will not touch them? No, he has not. He will have you and them both ! _

_ Believe me, I know his kind very well indeed. Dost thou think any of thine soldiers could prevent me from leaving, if I desired? But I am close now to something so hidden that even thine own mind conceals it in fear. Try to stay alive, Prince, until this game is played out. _

''My Lord?'' Gthar was saying. ''My prince, what is it?''

Khanad plied his fan again, although it was a chill he felt, not the spring heat.

''Vanimórë spoke into my mind,'' he breathed behind it, so low that Gthar had to lean close to hear him.  
''He said he will see my father dead.'' ~

~~~


	22. Light In The Dark Hours

 

(Written By Anwyn)

~ Stricken by the thoughts that rose in her mind, Anwyn closed her eyes tightly in a bid to shut them away. She allowed her head to come to rest against Elgalad’s hard chest trustingly, she did not wish to become as a weeping child in his arms, and Elgalad's presence was like a soothing balm upon her wounded spirit.

“I do not know anything of Elphir,” she swallowed down the lump that rose in her throat. “I have not seen him in...so long,” she finished brokenly. How long had it been, in truth, since that morning she had woken, so contented to find Elphir resting peacefully at her side. They had meant to spend the day together away from politics, away from high walls made of stone…

In Elgalad’s manner, she had not sensed any pity and for that she was grateful; it would have added to her already scathing humiliation. There was, however a genuine concern and sympathy, which made her thankful their paths had crossed, even in such a place as this.

When others entered, she searched her memory but did not recall seeing this man before, though she had rarely taken in faces. It mattered little, for she knew there were none save perhaps Elgalad and his lord she could trust. Part of her vaguely wondered if Khanad had been responsible for this, that it was a punishment, but after a moment she dismissed the thought. She did not believe he would be so cruel.  
But this man, who entered, she sensed was in a way worse than cruel. There was no empathy in his eyes, and her own narrowed when he mocked her pain. Were she stronger, but each movement still hurt.

If there was one thing that had been impressed upon her in these short days at the palace, it was that speaking when not addressed would earn her further punishment. She knew she could endure no more this day, and so she held her tongue.

Her gaze strayed to the two women who flanked the man and she wondered fleetingly how they could seem so untroubled; in this place where women were savagely taken and used, did they truly not feel afraid? There was something in their eyes that spoke of absolute detachment, and when they made a move towards her, she drew back slightly. She did not wish them near her, they could not possibly understand.

“And she is to be Queen….”

Anwyn finally understood what the Emir had been speaking of and and her stomach gave another sickening lurch.  
_No!_ was her silent shout of denial. The very thought disgusted her, and it was impossible. She was already wed. She had vowed to say nothing of Elphir and would not, but even had she been free, this was an _honor_ she did not want.

The man was very quick, she thought. He had caught some fleeting expression on her face which made his eyes linger for a moment, before flickering back to Elgalad. She bristled at his inference. Was this man really such a fool to believe she would be eager for bedsport after her rape?

Accustomed to doing everything for herself, Anwyn did not understand why this advisor was so persistent that these women attend to her. Why could she not bathe alone? Was she to be granted no privacy at all? She did allow Elgalad to lift her, however, for the desire to cleanse herself was overpowering, and she admitted that she needed his strength to get to the bath.

After all that had been done to her, modesty seemed laughable, but she felt a blush burning up in her cheeks as Elgalad also began to undress himself. Out of respect for him, whom she knew as a gentlemanly soul, she looked away, but when he helped her into the bath she felt only a swell of great gratitude. She tried to settle herself as comfortably as possible in the hot water. It eased the burning of her torn flesh and after a moment, her stomach. She raised her eyes as Elgalad leaned over and kissed her brow and her breath hitched at gratitude for the small, kind gesture. When he turned away to allow her privacy, and thus barred the womens watching eyes, she began to speak, keeping her voice a whisper, for she knew that Elgalad’s keen hearing would have no trouble deciphering her words. She was beginning to understand that spies were ever about, unseen to the eye but always present, and there was much she wanted to keep to herself. If the Emir were to learn she was already wed, she doubted it would mean anything to him, but what of Elphir? If he had been bought to this far southern realm, might not the madman seek him out and do him harm. She did not know if Elphir ad been sold long before her, or even where he was, but it seemed likely that if some-one wished to dispose of the heir to Dol Amroth, the further away from that land, the better would be the chances of his being lost forever.

“We were taken from Dol Amroth,” she began, bowing her head forward so that her long hair fell across her features and concealed her mouth. “It happened so quickly, it hardly seems possible! ” A shudder moved through to recall that terrible, fateful day.  
Raising a hand from the water, she tremblingly brushed damp strands of hair away from her eyes. Pressing her hands against her face she fought to collect herself, reach deep within to find some measure of calm, but to recall was difficult.

“I was _purchased_ and brought here as a slave.” The words fell from her lips heavily for already she had felt the sting of such a life, endured for such a short time what many were born into. Slavery could break one’s spirit and will and would make death seem like a blessed release. For one born into freedom, the very word was offensive, and she refused to feel herself a slave, or to be broken.

She washed herself until her skin reddened and became raw, as though she could rub away the memory of the man’s touch away from her body She washed until it hurt her, and she still felt unclean. ~  


  
~~~


	23. Dances In The Dark

 

(Written By Spiced Wine)

  
~ A slave entered. Elgalad was silent as she laid down a salver bearing two goblets of pale wine, and departed. He had listened in growing perturbation, and used the moment to reach out, hesitatingly, to Vanimórë.

_ My Lord? Lady Anwyn was with Elphir, they were taken by force from Dol Amroth. Canst thou see where he is? If I can tell her he is alive, it might give her some hope._

After a brief silence came the response: _ Wait, Meluion..._

Vanimórë reached out with his mind. He had seen and spoken to Elphir; each person's character was utterly distinctive and could be recognized again. Through the cacophony of minds and thoughts he waited for one which would shine with familiarity.

_I have him. Tell her he is alive and in Tanith as we are._  
Better not to tell Anwyn that the mind-tone of her husband was of rage near to madness.

_Thank Eru ! Canst thou not...? _

_I could do many things, and I will not. Not yet. I have to read this riddle, my dear._  
To work in secret, required often that one sacrifice not only oneself, but others...

_ And yet...this will not cost them their lives. I vow it._

Elgalad was worried for him, which was almost amusing, Vanimórë thought with a tender smile. He did not see his own danger, or more likely, put it aside.

_ Glorfindel could take him to New Cuiviénen..._  
Yet the Emir's anger when deprived of a potential toy might flash over onto others, Anwyn among them.

Vanimórë stepped from the bath, savagely drying himself, picking up the robe which had been chosen for him, a short tunic, trimmed at the hem with gold, leaving arms and legs bare. it was the robe of a pleasure-slave, easy to remove and displaying almost everything. He drew it over his head, belting it with a girdle of gold links. His hair, heavy, wet, soaked it through, the coiling ends shedding water droplets down his calves. Guards flanked the doorway, and two slaves, their skin as exotically blue-black as his own hair stood bearing great fans with which to cool him. These, undoubtedly, were also spies. Blank eyed, the four watched as Vanimórë walked to the balcony. He raised a hand, waving them back and his gesture was that of a prince, not a slave.

_I must pierce to the heart of this, Meluion. _

The aches in his misused body began to fade a little. The memory did not; it wove itself into the thousands of years of abuse.

_ And yet it is not the same,_ Vanimórë told himself, in an attempt to salve the fury. _I had other options, I am not a slave any longer. I chose this._

Chose to be hurt and degraded and humiliated, as if he were eagerly embracing the black horror of his past.

_ I could raze this city, cause fire to sweep its streets, break the foundations of that isle, send that sadistic madman screaming into death !_

A wind touched him, cooling the sultry heat. He raised his head to the sky and saw it darken, watched, as over the green inland hills, thunderheads, purple-black as a fresh bruise, began to pile higher and higher into the sky, mighty towers whose heads were limned with the sun's savage gold. He closed his eyes, opened them, feeling the power like a wild river of fire through him.

Lightning cracked across the sky, jagged spears lanced from air to earth, whip-lashed across the ink-black boil of the clouds, and he smiled, knowing _he_ had done this, and _he_ could take this power...

Thunder exploded above Tanith. He felt it through his feet and the buildings protested, the harmonics rebounding through the very stone. A wild, savage exultation sang through him. So much power...

_I could..._

_ I could destroy this city and all in it, leave tens of thousands dead, and then plague indeed would erupt, from the unburied corpses and spread, and the wide ways would be empty, the gardens would reek of bloated flesh, vultures would gorge until they were unable to fly, and in the Void...my father would laugh..._

He sucked back the terrible urge, felt it curl within him, like a beast which was chained, latent, dangerous. High winds began to disperse the pregnant clouds, so that when the rain came it was nothing more than a summer downpour.

Fire, white and unearthly, after-images of the lightning, blazed in his eyes before his lashes fell.

**No.**

~~~

Anwyn's chamber's grew dim as evening and Elgalad turned to her, filled with relief at what he had to tell her. Then the room flared bright, again and again, until everything he saw, even the water rippling about him, was unreal, vivid in the storm-light.

The thunderous detonation which came after it caused him to flinch. He felt the tang of power and drew Anwyn against him, waiting for he knew not what, but just as suddenly, the storm eased. Light began to grow again, gentle this time, the sun lost behind rain clouds which drew a soft veil across the city.

He bent his head, whispered in her ear:  
''My l-lord says that P-Prince Elphir lives, Lady. He is in T-Tanith.''

~~~

The Slave...danced.

Reclining back upon a couch heaped with cushions, now and then drawing at a jeweled pipe, the Emir watched through half-closed eyes.

Guards flanked the room, and the woman chosen to be queen was beside him, hair threaded with gems. She was close enough for him to reach out, groping, his hand sliding over the fullness of her breasts, fondling her throat.

The silver-haired Elf sat on the other side of her, his head downcast. Nothtar was nearby. Never relaxed, he had not touched the wine in his cup, and his eyes took in everything: the flicker of the tiniest expression on a face, the drugged Emir, his son, with Gthar standing behind him, apparently remote and disinterested.

And the slave danced.

Naked, but for a loincloth of golden strands, the lamplight touched each muscle and lineament, gilding them. The movement's were graceful as any dancer, but the dark Elf might have been an athlete, or warrior going through practice to loosen himself before competing, and the moves were as sensual as a throaty whisper in a dark bedchamber.

As the beat of cymbals and drums grew faster, the flowing mane of black hair swirled about him. He spun and twirled with a dizzying rapidity, then slowly leaned on his hands, turned over, came down on one foot after the other, and finally onto one knee before Taraluk.

Elgalad sat in a cocoon of corrosive shame and helpless anger. What he was feeling was experienced by every person who had ever been sold as a thing, an object, in any land where slavery was a fact of life. And although he had not been touched, to see Anwyn handled so, to see his lord perform for some-one who reeked of corruption was unendurable. He felt a fury alien to his nature, and his cheeks burned as he lifted his head and watched Vanimórë end the dance, the beautiful, beloved face bowed, the thick double fan of lashes on his cheeks. They rose briefly, his eyes casting Elgalad a glance both calm and reassuring.

_ This is nothing._ Vanimórë told him silently, lying, for it was degradation which no-one should become accustomed to, and yet he _was_ used to this.

Elgalad's eyes shimmered like well-water, his hair seemed polished metal. Vanimórë saw his innocent radiance as dangerous as a light on a lonely hillside which would attract the lawless bent on robbery and rapine. He yearned to rise, to draw Elgalad to him and take him away from this place. He wanted to bury his face in the thick hair which always smelled of hawthorn after rain, bury himself in the sweet body...

He turned his eyes away, thrust the longing behind the bars of his will and considered Anwyn, sitting as stiff as an idol painted and jeweled in some eastern temple. He felt her pain, her resolve with admiration, sensed Khanad's wounded pride, his fear to trust, his inherent chivalry appalled by the way his father handled the woman.

The Emir was aroused; it looked to be a long night ahead. Whatever touched him from the isle worked some mysterious effects upon his body. Vanimórë knew Men, and even the most virile and rampant needed time to fill and harden again after coupling. Like his oddly unaging face, lineless as something molded of plaster, Taraluk's appetites were inhuman, his hungers animalistic. But the narcotic smoke he inhaled was calming him enough to make anticipation almost as keen as the act would be in the end.

_ I will discover what touches thee, I will look into that Darkness, whatever it is, **whomever** it is, and I will swallow it!_ ~

~~~


	24. “Thou Art No Longer A Slave. ”

 

 

(Written by Spiced Ine)

 

The elusive laugh at the back of his mind, the ironic smile, were familiar now, a constant presence which had taken him some time to become accustomed to. But Vanimórë in a sense, was a part of him, both equal and opposite. He rose, frowning, crossed to the balcony that overlooked the great inland sea, looked across the many-shaded blue of the waters that had caused the Noldor to name it _Gaear Gwathluin,_ the Sea of Blue Shadow.

_Vanimórë?_

The Fëanorions' and those others banished to the Void had been released by Eru, and ot was almost five and twenty years since they they had come here. The journey had not been swift, for this place lay in the north-east of Arda, and the only way to transport so many people was by ship. The Teleri of Tol Eressëa, and some from Mithlond had crewed the vessels which had crossed Belegaer, rounded the south of the Harad and then sailed north into the Sea of the East.

Glorfindel had not physically seen Vanimórë for several years now. He had come here only once and privately, since the settlement, once Slave of Sauron, the one who had reclaimed the Silmaril of the Oceans, unlocked the door to Eternal Night with the Jewel.

Eru had called forth those wrongfully imprisoned, names of brilliance, of might and sorrow, and they were restored to flesh.

They were the new balance, Glorfindel and Vanimórë, one dwelling among Men, one among the Elves.

_Vanimórë!_

The sensation which had woken him slammed through him once more and he sent out his mind.

_I am Vala..._

_...I am used, and raped just as before, taken like a bought whore. I am still damned…_

_ Vanimórë! _ The thought flashed. _ Hear me! _

_This is nothing._

There was self loathing in that thought and so much hate. Glorfindel bent his mind upon the south, the lands unraveling under his eyes until they came to a white city on glittering waters – and he watched with repugnance and utter disbelief as Vanimórë was raped by a Man who reeked of rottenness. Fury blazed through him.

_ Thou art no longer a slave! What in the One's name dost thou do?  _ he demanded, his hands slamming down on the marble baluster.

 

~~~

 


	25. A Woman's Place In The Court

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~Anwyn was mystified by the suddenness of the storm that broke over the city, and it's equally quick cessation, yet she was oddly exhilarated by it's power. it had been too long since she had been free to stand and hear the ferocity of thunder, the shattering lightning, either sweeping across the Mark, or from the palace of Dol Amroth where the storms came up out of the ocean.  
In this prison to which unkind fate had brought her, it seemed almost out of place; something wild, uncontrollable, perhaps the only thing in this land that could not be controlled by the one whom had raped her. Even the stone about her seemed to tremble and Elgalad drew her nearer. She allowed his embrace for she was not afraid of him, indeed she was almost numb to fear for herself, for what worse could be done to her?

She was beginning to understand why she bad been brought here, though some part of her still raged against it, refusing to accept. She had been purchased as one might buy a winecup, and that was what she had become: a vessel for the Emir’s dark lusts, to be filled and then discarded until he chose to fill her again.  
Slave. The very word tasted bitter on her tongue, and she silently railed against it. The title of _Queen_ seemed a cruel mockery, for she would possess no power, nor have any more kindness shown to her than a slave. And a slave would not be expected to carry sons.

The thought of carrying a child conceived in rape caused her to inwardly flinch and sickness rose in her throat. Anwyn knew her body was strong and fertile, and had hoped that one day, if she was so blessed, she would grow ripe with Elphir's child. She could not bear a child sired by by cruelty!

Drawing away from these thoughts was difficult. She turned her eyes toward Elgalad once more and was startled by something she saw on his face. Happiness? Relief?

_My Lord says that Prince Elphir lives, Lady_The words caused her bones to melt to water. Hope poured into her parched soul and she silently wept against Elgalad, and these tears were not of shame and pain but of overwhelming relief and joy. Part of her had believed that if anything had happened to Elphir her soul would simply have _known,_ and since she had felt nothing, she had clung to the hope he was alive, somewhere. To hear her hope confirmed was a weight lifted from her, a sunrise after bitter winter. Of course she was still in danger here, but a sudden strength rushed through her, that she could survive and endure knowing her husband was alive.

“Thank you!” she managed brokenly, the words meant for Elgalad alone to hear, as the attendants came forward and helped her out from the bath. Anwyn could even tolerate the two women who tended to her hurts with cool efficiency. A salve was applied, much to her chagrin, but it was soothing, and after, she was permitted to rest and drifted into a deep, healing sleep. At all times she was aware of the presence of guards stationed just beyond the doors but was comforted in the knowledge that Elgalad still lingered nearby.

It was Nothtar who woke her, seemingly indifferent to whether she was recovered or not, and again he was flanked by the two women who had attended to her earlier. Now they stood with with fresh garments and a small casket, such as ladies use for jewelry. Refreshments were also laid out, though these remained untouched. Anwyn had absolutely no desire to eat, but apparently this went unnoticed as she was bustled into the chambers prepared for her.

It seemed that the Emir sought to please her with gifts, though she suspected that to see her adorned as such lavish wares more for his pleasure than for her own. Distantly, she wondered how many women had worn these jewels before, and where they were now. They were fine, but heavy and over-wrought and the clothes, while beautifully woven, were not as she would ordinarily garb herself. However, there was no choice permitted her; the two women going about their task with the same matter-of-fact efficiency as before. Anwyn sat straight-backed and stared ahead, as silent as they.

When Nothtar had reappeared, he nodded his approval and professed her suitably attired for the evening's festivities. There was something in the undercurrent of his tone that filled with dread, and the fear did not lessen as she was taken under guard to the private chambers of the Emir. She was uncertain of what 'festivities' would entail, but was utterly unprepared for the display which unfolded. She fought to remain outwardly calm, but she was both bemused and horrified to see Vanimórë apparently as much a slave as herself.

As he danced, she purposely kept her gaze elsewhere. She could not comprehend what had forced him into such an abominable situation. It was as if a great stallion had been harnessed and forced to pull a merchants wagon and was difficult for her to watch something fine and beautiful be dragged down to such a level. It was wrong, wrong, yet there was such sensuality in his movements that a warm flush tinged her cheeks and Taraluk was so near to her that she could hear the pattern of his breathing growing faster. As he watched he grew more and more aroused by Vanimórë’s dance, and the sexuality in the room deepened like the smoke which wafted around him.

At times as Vanimórë had danced, the hand of the ruler strayed down as though he could no longer simply contain himself and must touch something. It brushed over her breasts, grasping and fondling and she sat in humiliated silence, shamed by this obvious display of possessiveness towards her, or rather, her body. At times his wandering hand straying further and she bit back a cry as his hand groped down the front of her gown, cupping her breast, while his fingers twisted at her nipple. She fought against turning and lashing out at him, and refused to give him whatever twisted pleasure he took in hearing her discomfort vocalized. Eventually, the man ceased to fondle her, and she understood that his desire was not for her at this moment, but she was closer than the one who danced and he might touch her. Her flesh crawled. It seemed that he could know no pleasure unless the other felt pain.

She strove to be calm and to observe, for she was determined to gather all the knowledge she could with a view to escaping this place. She noted the many guards, saw that each was heavily armored and than that their weapons were coated with a poison that she had come to recognize by a faint sick-sweet scent. Even if the blow itself was not fatal the after effects of the poison certainly would be. Anwyn wondered if there were many cities of the south that were like this, where a ruler so feared for his life that such measures were taken. Of course, this one had good reason to fear for his life, she thought with a flash of hate.

When she looked away from him, the Emir seized her hair and forced her head toward Vanimórë. Was he reveling in the fact that some-one so obviously strong was powerless before him? Was he driving that home to her? As she fought to avert her gaze, her eyes met those darker ones of the Prince, Khanad, and though he quickly, casually looked away, she saw something there that startled her. She had at first believed him to be as arrogant as she would expect of the Emir's son, but there was something akin to concern in his eyes, and it was not for himself.

It was not the Emir alone who was entranced by the eroticism which Vanimórë exuded. There seemed to be none present who did not feel it and Anwyn was only drawn back to horrible reality when Emir touched her.

More than once Taraluk had referred to her as possessing the blood of Númenor, and this confused her. She knew of that blood, but was certain none ran in her own veins, of course the Emir was insane, but _if_ he was correct, the blood must have come down to her from her unknown father. She believed him a Rohirrim warrior, lost in one of the battles that had followed her begetting. She had been allowed too little time to contemplate this puzzle, but what she knew for certain was that this belief on the part of the Emir had kept her relatively safe. If rape could be called safety, and perhaps, in this pace, it was.

As Vanimórë finished his dance, the Emir grasped at Anwyn’s arm and drew her up. She was still rather sore and moved haltingly, begrudging being forced to move so quickly. The man's eyes possessed a glassy quality of one that had imbibed too much wine, or the strange narcotic he had been smoking. He was inflamed at the erotic dance, she saw, and looked like a glutton at a feast who seeks to draw as much onto his plate as possible. His fingers dug painfully into her arm though she willed her expression remain impassive; she would not give him the pleasure of seeing her flinch or draw away. Unaffected by wine or drug, Anwyn watched the man look about greedily, saw his gaze linger upon Elgalad. She was moved to distract the man's attention, for in her eyes Elgalad’s innocence and kindness should not be touched by such filth. She would shield him from what she had endured, if she could.

“My lord, perhaps it is time you retire to your rooms?” she suggested and heard a sharp hiss of disapproval from Enoch behind her as he rose like a snake.

“You do not address the Most High, **woman**, unless he has chosen to address you first!” Enoch spat through his teeth, fixing her with a dark look as though she had just committed some grave crime. The Emir nodded gravely, for the woman had indeed just shown him disrespect.

“This is true, my Chosen, though I am certain you shall later beg for my...forgiveness.” An anticipatory smile accompanied the words and Anwyn set her jaw and catching a look from Khanad,  held her silence. ~

~~~


	26. The Black Ship

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

~There was not one flicker of expression on Vanimórë's face as he heard Glorfindel's sharp question in his mind.

_Golden One,_ he returned with a touch of furious laughter. _ Do not concern thyself with me. There is something here, something blacker than the eye of Night and my powers cannot reveal it. And so my **other ** talents must serve me. No doubt the One knew this._

It was uttered with insouciance like a shrug. The violet eyes narrowed upon the Emir as he spoke to Anwyn. Not far away Elgalad, rosy with indignation, came to his feet as if to say something. Vanimórë held him motionless with a look.  
_That will only provoke him, Meluion._

He said, lazily, aloud: ''Is this true? Surely the Queens of Númenor were permitted to speak?''

Enoch swelled, his mouth opening but before he could speak the Emir lunged forward, his great hand closing about Vanimórë's throat. After a moment, his fingers loosed, grasped at the loose hair and tugged it back.

''My slaves learn obedience and respect, even my ... favored.'' His voice was slurred by narcotics and the threat faded from it, leaving only dark hunger.

Nothtar nodded toward the Prince and Gthar, indicating that they leave now. The atmosphere in the chamber thickened, became something cloying, unclean.

"You," Taraluk turned and looked at Elgalad as he crossed to Anwyn and drew her back down on the couch.  
''Both of you, come. The rest may leave.''

Khanad's eyes flashed, but his lashes lowered. He knew one did not question his father's orders.

_Prince, I want thee to seek for Anwyn's husband._  
Vanimórë's mind-voice flicked the dark-grey eyes toward him, and he gave the prince an image of Elphir.  
_he was brought here also, he lives, have your people look for him._

_You are sure? He could be anywhere, there are thousands of slaves!_

_I am sure._

Khanad gave an infinitesimal shrug, which might be interpreted as acquiescence.

_Can you help her?_ he asked.

_I will try._ Vanimórë' responded.

The others melted away, Nothtar and Enoch to take up hidden positions where they might observe, Khanad to speak to Gthar.  
In frozen mortification, Elgalad stood without moving. He was clothed much as Vanimórë had been earlier, in a short tunic which left his long legs bare and beautiful; the straight fall of hair, wrist thick at the neatly sheared ends, fell inches longer than the tunic, and was left loose as a maiden's. His very simplicity, set against Anwyn's jeweled beauty and Vanimórë's sensuous nakedness, seemed to form one corner of a triangle, as if the Emir sought to surround himself with different specimens of flowers and would pluck whichever he chose.

_Meluion. Do not fear._  
Even here the dark velvet of that voice could comfort Elgalad. He looked fleetingly at the sprawled figure of the ruler, and felt a shudder welter through him.

_My lord, I cannot..._

_I will not let him force thee, my dear. _ Vanimórë's answer was hard. _Trust me_.  
He had seen men like this before; the desire was there but the body was unable to follow it.

''Thou shouldst let thy chosen Queen rest, in preparation for her investiture, Most High.'' He stood before the foot of the couch, the lamplight casting blue and purple shadows over his hair. Then he went down and began to crawl slowly across the silks. He looked like a predator stalking its prey.

''Shall I tell thee of Númenor, Sire? Shall I tell the of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden? Thou art like him.''  
Taraluk's eyes, black with the dilation of the pupils were fast on him.  
''I was his toy ere the end. He enjoyed..._ many_ games.''

''You knew the last King?'' the Emir asked and licked his lips.

''I knew him...intimately.'' The black-maned head suddenly flung back in a laugh of reckless challenge against his fate and he dropped, stretched across the couch, his body a statue of white patterned by black tattoos.  
''Let me tell thee of thine ancestor, Most High.''

''I am his descendant,'' Taraluk nodded complacently. ''But he was a fool. I am no such fool.''

"He was, Most High." The parted lips were an invitation, then: _Sleep..._  
It was the merest suggestion breathed across the man's mind, mingling with the drugs which pulled at him. For a moment, lust fought against it and then, leaning forward, Taraluk's eyes closed and he toppled, falling across the pillows.

No-one moved a muscle until Vanimórë sat up. _Say nothing._

The odd Blackness he felt, the Nothingness, _had_ to be unaware of what he was, of what he was doing. He locked his emotions away. Earlier this day he had cracked Power across the sky. If the Darkness were a sentient being it would have felt that the storm was unnatural. Vanimórë wished to give it no further cause for suspicion. He waited – and then he almost saw it.  
In a corner of the room there was a shimmer in the air, a ripple of shadow. Casually he turned his head – and it was gone. He let out breath carefully.

_Morgoth, how many spirits didst thou call to thyself in the beginning – which still exist and were not flung into the Void with thee? Balrogs I have seen, Fire-drakes, Fell-wolves, and vampires, but what is on that island?_

The door opened and Enoch entered, flanked by Royal Guards.

''None remain while the Most High sleeps,'' he proclaimed. Of course, the temptation to kill the unconscious Taraluk might prove too much for a desperate slave. Although none were permitted to carry weapons, a strong enough man could strangle him, use one of the heavy goblets to smash his head. They would die themselves, but might deem it worthwhile.  
''You,'' he jerked his head to Vanimórë. ''Tomorrow, you are to display your weapon-skills to the Most High. The Chosen will attend, and the other Elf. Now you will be taken to your rooms.''

''A pity – I was just...warming up.'' The drawled reply earned Vanimórë a cold glare from the man. Gthar was not the only one to realize that if this death warrior won the Great Games and continued to be favored by the Emir, then a few prominent people in the court might find themselves surplus.

''You will learn respect,'' he hissed. ''One way or another! Come.''

Anwyn was lead to her chambers and Vanimórë and Elgalad to the rooms beyond them.

_ Anwyn._ Vanimórë said, gently._Thou art not alone. And I have asked Khanad to search for Elphir. Thou may not understand why I do this the way I do, but there is a reason, rooted in the isle out in the bay, the one ever covered by fog. Why there are so few criminals here, no public executions, in a city and realm ruled by one who enjoys pain. It will run before me if I unleash Power, flee and settle somewhere else. And that must not be. It must be dealt with here. I know thy pain, lady. I am sorry for it, but thou wilt endure. He dreams of greatness such as Ar-Pharazôn, this madman. But the Queens of Númenor also had power, and were held in esteem. He must be made to remember that, keep thee unharmed. This will not be forever. Prince Elphir is alive. Hold to that._

Elgalad watched Vanimórë as the doors were closed and barred behind them, his face was transparent, vulnerable, yet oddly stony.

_Please, my lord... thou dost not... want this..._ His words were the merest whisper, and the purple eyes blazed.

_ Never think that ! Hells, my father must be laughing at me still !_  
He drew Elgalad against him, feeling the tautness of the tall body.

_ I know that thou sayest thou canst not use Power, but surely the One did not mean thee to be tormented again, thou art his chosen, like the Lord Glorfindel. What is it that lurks here, what is this evil?_

Elgalad buried in the shimmering blackness of Vanimórë's hair, he pressed his lips desperately against it, feeling silk and coolness, felt the leaping response. But Vanimórë only said.  
_I do not know, Meluion. Not yet. But I WILL find out._  
He tilted up the fair face, kissed Elgalad with a sunburst of desire and passion and then whirled away, pouring wine, sinking onto piled cushions.  
''Drink,'' he said. _I must send my mind out. _ He tossed off the drink and curved an arm about Elgalad's back, and then opened his mind...

He could see all but was nothing, a spirit, moving through a world which had no boundaries. He sensed Glorfindel as a shining golden flame and said to him:

_The things we do for expediency and love._

The city hummed gently, a whirl of emotions: grief and love, joy, sorrow...  
And there was so much fear, like a clot in a stream of blood.  
He passed through air and night, concentrated on the Darkness, feeling the sigh of the ocean. And then he saw it. He had ridden past this spot with Elgalad and seen nothing, for it was invisible but from a ship.

Ages of the moving water had eaten into the great cliffs south of the city, forming a small cove. There was no beach here, for even at low tide, the waves lapped the caves which yawned beneath. Now, from them, a ship was passing like a ghost. Its sails were black in the star-sheen, and the oars which dipped made no sound. It was filled from prow to stern with huddled figures, and it was from their minds that the fear emanated, but it was strangely muted and he recognized the same drugged passivity as had lain on the Emir.

Straight as a thrown spear the ship was headed toward the isle.

No criminals in Tanith...no executions...only fear...

These people knew where they were going, and had to be drugged to make their last, terrible journey... on a Black Ship...a Death ship...

_What is it_? he cried into the fog which enshrouded the island. **_What art thou_**?~


	27. Calm After The Storm

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
Anwyn remained prudently silent. She had seen how ruthless the Emir could be without any provocation at all. To cross him further would be as foolish as tormenting a starved wolf. Fury swelled within her, she was not accustomed to being treated so, and her anger caused a great lump to rise in her throat. She did not think she could have spoken if she had tried.

Unable to find fault in her this time, Enoch spun angrily away from them. It seemed that with his master scarcely able to walk that he it incumbent on himself to maintain the Emir's cruelty. Anwyn believed him no true threat, however, for he could do very little without the blessings of his lord. He was a well trained and obedient beast, she thought contemptuously.

She had little time to dwell on her bitter thoughts for the Emir grasped her arm, and at his touch she stiffened, preparing herself for further shame or disgrace; quite possibly both. Taraluk tugged her to him and she bowed her head, feeling the lash of shame at his touch, determined to cling to what little dignity remained to her. Only her reluctant movements betrayed her unwillingness to be anywhere near the man. The heavy scent of smoke and the musky odor of his aroused body impelled her to avert her head slightly, but the Emir did not notice her revulsion. Beneath the fall of silks, her posture was as rigid and fixed as any of the stone columns in the room. The desire to strike out at him was almost overpowering; perhaps she might only manage one blow but she would make it count for something. It took all her willpower to stand motionless as his grasp upon her wrist tightened.

The crushing grip suddenly lessened, and she glanced up quickly, to see his attention had been captured by Vanimórë. Through her cloying fear and uncertainty, Anwyn listened, intrigued and revolted by dark lust that Taraluk exuded as he clearly sought to imagine what games his cursed ancestor had enjoyed. His hand fell from her then, and she seized the opportunity to draw herself away a few steps while his eyes were riveted upon the dark haired Elf. The man was hard and erect beneath his rich robes, and it seemed he might leap upon Vanimórë and take him in full sight of all, when so suddenly it surprised her, he toppled over, apparently in deep sleep.

She could not help her startled jump and beneath downcast lashes her eyes slid questioningly towards Vanimórë, then away again as his voice reached her mind. She inclined her head infinitesimally to signal her understanding and then cautiously gathering her skirts, she came to her feet, moving as if the Emir were a sleeping baby whom might wake at the slightest noise. As Enoch dismissed them, relief swept through her. She was more than glad to be released from the heavy atmosphere of these chambers.

Once returned to her rooms, so near to those of the Emir that only a mere wall set them apart, Anwyn heard the all-too-familiar click as the door was locked behind her. Coming to a halt in the center of the room, her head turned slightly as if the one whom addressed her stood close at her side.

_I shall endure this,_Anwyn replied resolutely. And she meant it, for the knowledge that Elphir still lived would be enough to carry her along,and hope would be her new ally in this place.

To be spoken to in her mind was not a frightening sensation, though it had been most unsettling at first, it was merely…_odd,_ but she listened carefully mulling over the words until the gentle touch was withdrawn from her mind and she knew she was again alone. She sank down upon a couch and wrapped her arms about herself in a gesture of self-comfort.

_I shall endure,_ she vowed again. Anwyn had faith, though it had been sorely tested. She still ached, but it was no longer the fierce pain that had ground itself into her lower stomach. That was fading back into shameful memory now, where she believed it would remain, forever fresh and shameful long after her body was healed.

It seemed a great misfortune (and a strange coincidence) that Vanimórë and Elgalad should also be here. One might almost say it was Fate, though she could only wonder at Fate if this were so. She was however, willing to trust Vanimórë. She had, anyhow, very little choice. She did not know the dark isle of which he spoke, but her understanding of this place was still very limited. Limited! She felt she could scarcely endure such captivity, and she wondered how the Elves were able to tolerate it, thought Vanimórë seemed incredibly adept at negotiating his way through these dangerous waters. When she had seen him in the presence of the Emir, it seemed that he was far more in control than the Man either realized or would allow himself to admit. The Emir in some way shrunk before him, one power yielding before something far stronger. It was difficult to explain or understand. Anwyn, like nearly all her kin, was not one to play at subtleties, but she was no fool, and intuitively knew that a shift of power had already begun.

Crossing the room to the doors that lead out onto a small balcony above the gardens she found them closed and locked. Clearly, she was supposed to remain in her chambers. Perhaps it was believed that she might try to throw herself from the balcony in a bid to end her own life. How many women had done so? she wondered, grimly.

A sad smile touched her lips.  
_No, I am no such coward._

For a moment she lingered, her fingers tracing the ornate design of the iron crafted to mimic a wall of vines in heavy bloom. Her fingers wrapped around the bars, thinking that, unlike a flower, she would not be allowed to grow wild and free, but would be contained like the potted palms she had seen. She turned away again, though she drew back the drapes to allow the moonlight into the room. The night beyond the windows was strangely calm, and only small wisps of cloud drifted under the soft radiance of the moon as it spread a silvery light across the city.

Seating herself before a mirror, Anwyn raised her eyes and wondered how many other women had sat in this precise place. And where were they now? Khanad was a prince; where was his mother? Why was she not present to watch her son grow into manhood? Sadness touched her at the thought, and a rill of fear. She could guess well enough, despair and loneliness seemed to cling to these walls. Restlessly she rose and strode the length of the room, silks rustling like blowing cloud at her impetuous, curbed gait. The darkness seemed to press down on her and she was chilled as she imagined a host of dead women staring at her from the shadows.

Raising a hand she drew away the bejeweled circlet that adorned her brow, and began to cast aside the finery which had been bestowed upon her. With each layer removed she felt as though she was nearer to reaching herself again, stripping away the falsehood that the Emir would have her become. As she ran a hand through her hair, she became once more simply Anwyn, wife of Elphir, daughter of Rohan, not the strange exotic creature chosen to grace the Emir's couch! How she longed to become Anwyn once more, to return to that life that seemed, in retrospect, so much simpler.


	28. Thou Art Temptation

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

~ As Vanimórë sent his mind out, blankness glossed his eyes. It seemed to Elgalad as if all of him hardened to stone, a statue without any motivating spirit within it. The thought was so disturbing that he raised a hand to the high curve of Vanimórë's cheek, white skin molded over bone, so hard it did indeed feel like marble, save that it was warm. He traced down to the scrolled lips, the column of the throat.  
''My lord?'' he whispered. ''I want t-to help thee.''

He felt the slow, deep pulse under his touch and lifted his mouth to it. There was no response, and he expected none, yet there was a strange freedom in being able to show his love without restraint. And he knew he _had_ to restrain himself, because withholding was equally as hard for Vanimórë, who maintained that he would ruin Elgalad if they became lovers. Elgalad thought that nonsense, but would not have cared were it true. So close they had come to the act of sex, and to be unable to consummate it was a constant, unassuaged pain in both of them. Yet he curbed his impulses to save Vanimórë greater pain. He told himself that what they had was better than nothing. And he did believe that Vanimórë loved him.

_Not as I love him, I think._

And that was manifestly unfair. Vanimórë had plunged into the abyssal deeps of the ocean to reclaim a Silmaril, to enter Aman, for _him._

_But he said only Eru could truly have given him the strength to do all of those things. Perhaps it was Ilúvatar who prompted him to do that, and not me at all._

''It does n-not matter,'' his breath dusted the warm skin. ''I l-love thee. I was b-born to love thee. We b-both know it."  
His fingers drew down over the smooth chest and stomach, feeling the planes of flesh hard as armor. His skin flushed with arousal as he pressed kisses over it, moved back to the still mouth. Made bolder by the carved silence, he threaded his hands into the waves of hair, then his own rained down as he moved lower and lower, to the strands of gold which adorned Vanimórë's loins.

_ I could comfort him. He does not want the emir, and I could ease his hurt..._  
But the the sight of Vanimórë crawling lion-like over the couch toward Taraluk, turning onto his back, the epitome of sex and wanton wickedness...  
_He was used for so long, trained like a plaything..._

He drew aside the metal links – and saw the erection dark and hard. Even as he started in surprise, he was flipped onto his back and found himself within a curtain of black hair.

''**No,**'' Vanimórë whispered savagely. ''I have told thee: seek not to be my Slave, as I was Sauron's!''

''I w-want to be,'' Elgalad cried, and his words were muffled by lips which at first kissed him like a blow, and then gentled to sensuality as potent as the drug which had fumed in the Emir's chambers. Elgalad moaned in his throat, arching up eagerly as Vanimórë's hands slipped under his taut buttocks, drew him closer, molding him into the line of his own body.  
_Yes!_

Vanimórë was almost insane with hunger. He had come back into himself to the caresses and kisses of Elgalad, so sweet and so passionate. The passion underlying the innocent demeanor was always a surprise, hinting at what a lover Elgalad could be if he fully unleashed it; that wild, earthy blood running like storm-water.  
Fire ran in his veins, he felt as if he would flash into pure power if he did not have Elgalad now. It had taken all his control to appear oblivious. but he could not control his body's reaction.

Elgalad pressed against the magnificent body, writhing, seeking more, needing to be taken. And then as he felt himself about to burst even without that possession, that wonderful mouth lifted from his, he felt the cascade of hair over his chest and belly and the short tunic was pushed back. Lips closed over him. The sensation caused him to cry out, his hands clenching in the silks as his body bucked, came, and Vanimórë drank every drop.

He was trembling uncontrollably, tears were slipping down his cheeks and he turned his head aside.

''Meluion, do not weep,'' the rich voice was gentle.

''I want th-thee to use m-me as a slave if it m-means having thee.''

The softness faded from Vanimórë's face as he sat up.  
''A slave? Thou hast seen the slaves here !'' He moved like a snake striking, slamming Elgalad's arms back over his head.  
''To be a slave is to have no voice, no freedom, no will, to be an _object,_ a **thing,** to bleed, be used before thou hast recovered, to be so damaged thou canst scarce walk ! No tenderness, no affection, none of the things thou doth need, my sweet Meluion.''  
He pulled him up, sent him hard against the wall and thrust his long legs apart. Elgalad felt teeth close on the cheek of his buttocks and bit his lip as they were prised open.

''Art thou ready for me now, all unprepared so that only thy blood will ease it?''  
Elgalad's heart slammed and something rose in him that was not desire but fear; fear of the hard hands, the tone that held no love. He closed his eyes.  
''No?'' His head was pulled back and he felt breath against his ear. He shivered.  
''Answer me!''

''N-not like this!''

There was a long silence and then he found himself free and turned, gulping back tears. Vanimórë spun away, poured wine, drank it down and then hurled the goblet across the room. It hit a glass vase which shattered in all directions.  
''Do not speak of slavery ! Not to me !''

''Forgive m-me...'' Elgalad said, as shattered as the broken vase.

''Forgive thee? For what, my love? Thou didst nought. It is I...Come.'' His arm was taken and he was lead from the chamber. Stationed outside the doors, the Royal Guard clashed their spears together to form a barrier.

''He is to see the lady.'' The words were a command so absolute that the men, as if stung by hornets, drew back. Vanimórë lead Elgalad to Anwyn's door and the soldiers there, after the briefest of moments, unlocked it. They were aware the Elves were favored, were uncertain and compelled by the authority in the dark one's bearing.

''Stay with her a while.'' Vanimórë crossed to Anwyn, and took her hands.  
_My mind will be on both of thee, do not worry, the Emir will sleep a long time._

His eyes searched her face, and saw the resolve and courage there. He nodded to himself and then kissed her cheek, before he turned back to Elgalad. His gaze softened. He felt inexpressibly sad, as he cupped the wet face in his hands.

"My beauty," he murmured. ''Beloved."  
He kissed away the tears, leaned his brow against Elgalad's for a moment, then turned and swept from the room.

Elgalad watched the doors close, his breathing knotted impossibly in his throat, then went to Anwyn and drew her into his arms, seeking, as much as giving, comfort.

And alone in his chamber, save for the silent, patient spies, Vanimórë flamed in furious fire and rage, like a dark exploding star embodied in living flesh. ~

 

 


	29. In The Matter Of Comfort

 

(Written by Anwyn)

Anwyn raised her head, slowly rose to her feet at the sound of the lock turning bracing herself for another onslaught. Was it the Emir, woken from his stupor. She had wished his sleep so deep he might never again awaken, and this grim desire somewhat startled her. It was against her nature to wish harm upon others, but the very atmosphere of this place nurtured such thoughts. Pushing them from her mind, she watched with indrawn breath as the door began to swing inwards – and her rigid posture softened as she saw Vanimórë and Elgalad, though relief swiftly turned to curiosity.

Striding forward and coming to pause before Vanimórë, her gaze flicked to Elgalad, as he requested that the other remain here with her. Certainly she would have no objection to Elgalad's company, she thought.  
Vanimórë drew her hands into his own, and her eyes rose to his as again the deep smooth mind-voice brushed against her thoughts. Once more, a small nearly imperceptible nod was her answer.

She was relieved beyond measure that she had been spared. The Emir appeared to enjoy wine and narcotics in such a great quantity as would have rendered most men unconscious long before he had succumbed. She had not been able to quash the fear that he had some-how revived enough to come here. As it was, she was glad to be assured he would not wake for quite some. If there were any justice left in the world, he would also feel ill after he awoke and be in no mood for bed-sport.

Raven hair brushed against her skin as Vanimórë kissed her cheek and whilst she did not give a start or balk away, the faint touch of color stood out starkly against her pale complexion as it burned her cheeks.

“Elgalad?!” She asked, suddenly quite alarmed as she saw the look of sorrow and the tears that glistened upon the smooth ageless face. She felt her heart leap into her throat as the thought suddenly occurred to her that Elgalad too had been treated to a measure of the brutal hospitality of this place. Just as quickly she dismissed this. There were none here whom could have overpowered him, and anyway, there were no marks upon his flesh that she could see.

_There is something deeper here_

Finding herself drawn into a close embrace, Anwyn was slightly hesitant, though this was far outweighed by her concern for the Elf. She laid her hands upon his back and drew him nearer. Her thoughts had returned to earlier, when had been of such great comfort to her, and she hoped she could comfort him in return. If any were watching her, she thought, with a flash of anger, let them go running to tell; she did not feel any shame or guilt.

No-one whom who had spent any length of time in the presence of Elgalad could be unmoved by his sweet, kind nature, she thought, and mentally added: _No-one but a monster._ It was not a weakness, as she perceived weakness, though in a place like this where the Emir ruled with an iron grip, she could not help but feel worried for him. This concern extended to any caught in the web of Tanith and, though Anwyn knew she could not match the physical strength of the men, she had hoped that with some patience she could come to wield an influence. But now...the thought of submitting herself to such usage as the Emir had subjected her to, caused her flesh to prickle uncomfortably, as though she had just been brushed by a wolf’s pelt. She forced the dread aside and considered for a moment this fair Elf and the one he called his lord.

There was something between them, one would have to be either blind or a complete fool not to recognize this, but the difficulty lay in distinguishing what the relationship was. It surpassed mere words or terms. Elphir had approached her regarding this, once, believing that she had some greater insight than he of what lay between the two. She could not answer him, for it was something too complex for words to encompass. This lead her thoughts back to how and why they had all come to be in Tanith. It seemed there were strange threads in motion, and she could not understand yet, but she did not need to understand to give comfort. She ran a hand down Elgalad's back soothingly. It was instinctive, as though she calmed a child, and it also helped her to consider that she might be able to do some measure of good in this place. ~

~~~

  



	30. Chosen From Light And Dark

**New Cuiviénen **

 

 

~ Glorfindel strode to the wide balcony. From here, built as the villa was on an elevation, he could see other mansions and part of the great complex of the palace.  
The Noldor had built their New Cuiviénen after the fashion of Tirion, and of Gondolin, save that there was no great city, the mansions set far apart in the lush, lovely land. They mined and cut stone, raised it and decorated it. Each home was set within tended gardens, among trees and water; dynamism and poetry melded together, arrogant and beautiful.

Once again, their hot and cold forges melted gems and ran them into incised marble. A multitude of precious and semi-precious stones and metals traced patterns which were sometimes clean-lined and simple and at others curled into marvelous shapes. Here, where a clambering rose was trained against a wall, a sculptor had continued it's rich riot in stone, so that an archway was formed where the flowers, leaves and stems were not alive, but looked it, and there, the pillars of the colonnade were bled through with other colours: lapis, violet, ruby, ice-blue. The floors were inlaid with patterns formed of snowflake obsidian, garnet, malachite and blue-lace agate. Yet nothing was over-wrought, nor gaudy, there was a sense of space and grandeur which seemed to mirror those who lived within. One could not imagine their dwellings as other than this.  
The roads were cambered and paved. The tripartite symbolism was repeated again and again, in floors and gardens, but always the eye was drawn upward, by line and colour, and a strange, almost liquid luminescence limned all.

Two horses were approaching the great house. Glorfindel turned and walked down the wide hallway, the shallow stairs, to meet the riders entering the gates.

''What is it?'' Tindómion swung lightly down from his mount and Maglor stepped forward to embrace Glorfindel with a questioning smile.  
''There is trouble in thy face?'' He quirked a brow and Glorfindel's frown deepened.

''It is not my trouble, yet it does concern me.'' Glorfindel turned and beckoned. ''Come.''  
They entered a chamber fronted by a pillared colonnade overlooking the gardens. Pouring wine, he handed the goblets to his visitors and leaned against the baluster.  
''Something is amiss with Vanimórë.''

Father and son exchanged glances. ''How can anything be amiss with _him?_ Is he not a Power?'' Maglor still reacted violently at the name.

''He feels...pain, contends with something. I do not know what, and neither does he.'' Glorfindel drank a mouthful of the dry, bubbling wine. ''I must go to him.'' He pushed a hand into his hair. ''His power almost caused a storm not long ago. He is far south, with Elgalad.''

Tindómion's face became grave. ''Him, I do worry for,'' he said.

"He has protection," Maglor murmured. He would never forget the horror on Vanimórë's face when he realized he had killed Elgalad. Certainly he would never let anything happen to his beloved.

''I know.'' Glorfindel's voice was equally quiet. ''I trust Vanimórë to look after him, but it is not Elgalad I am worried about. I am deeply troubled by what I sense in _Vanimórë's_ mind.'' He glanced out into the gardens, his eyes falling on a shining head, on eyes that looked up as if called, smiled at him under raised brows.  
"Wilt thou keep Legolas company?" he asked, and they nodded, for they knew what lay behind the request. The new haven was not peaceful; too many fierce personalities inhabited it. The one who walked in the garden was a proven warrior and fair as the dawn. Glorfindel was certainly not the only one who looked at him with desire.

"Of course," Tindómion replied. "Ecthelion will be around, I do not doubt."

Glorfindel nodded. From a naturally delicate beginning, a friendship had formed between Legolas and Ecthelion which was unexpected, but welcome.

"Shalt thou be away long?" Maglor asked.

"No, not long. I should not interfere, but if Vanimórë breaks," he said grimly. "The world will have another Morgoth Bauglir bestriding it." ~

 

~~~

Glorfindel hung bodiless above Tanith for a time, untangling the thoughts which sleeted through his mind. Amidst the chaotic mass, he felt Elgalad, quivering with desire and pain, and touched him gently.

_ Vanimórë !_

Sauron's son had been through an apotheosis which gave him the power of a god. Why in the Hells was he submitting to this usage?

Appearing in Vanimórë's chambers, he strode across the room. There was an expression on that imperious, beautiful face that scored him to the soul; acidic self-hate under wild loathing.  
"Look at me! Talk to me!"

"Remember Mordor?" Vanimórë murmured. "The Last Alliance?"

"I remember." Glorfindel pitched his voice very low. He he reached out a hand, sliding his fingers through the black hair.

Vanimórë tipped his head back languorously at the touch.  
"It was _magnificent." _

They faced one another and the air between them sang, burned with a song of fire and temptation and need. The lucent purple eyes danced wickedly and Vanimórë moved suddenly, jerking Glorfindel close. The wild hunger of the kiss was rooted in frustration of both sex and power ,and he growled in his throat, before spinning away, his hair swirling.

''_Glorious Glorfindel._'' He laughed then, a hard sound.  
''Very well. So tell me. What canst thou see? Come!''

He caught the other's hand and ran, and for an instant felt the resistance and then the slip, the minute shift of particles of stone and mortar as his form frayed to pass through the walls.

He stood on nothing, rejoicing in freedom. The stars were thick and huge, spraying across the sky, the endless dark sea spread before them.

_Look, then._

He pointed across the bay, to a place where no light reached, which seemed to swallow sight and even thought; a no-place, that both mind and eye was tempted to ignore entirely. The people of Tanith deliberately chose not to see it, nor did they speak of it. It was like a shameful secret.

_There are no executions here, no death wheels, no hanging trees, no cages, no criminals, no beggars – and so much fear; the air is thick with it, from the lowest, to the highest. And this night I saw a ship filled with people, sailing from a hidden cove to the isle that lies yonder. Something dwells there, visits plague upon Tanith unless the ruler sends...tribute. And I cannot see it, no power can aid me, the Shadow lies on the mind of the Emir, it slides thoughts away. If I show forth power, it will flee elsewhither. The only way I may discover it is secretly, masking my powers. Art thou not proud of me and my...skills?_  
A flashing smile blazed in the night and the violet eyes melted caressingly over Glorfindel.

_What canst thou do, Golden One? Thou couldst let me possess thee and burn like the deepest rivers of fire beneath Orodruin ! Let me forget for a time that Eru chose me to whore for Him ! _  
He whirled behind Glorfindel, burying his face in the molten gold hair.

_I cannot have Meluion, I would break him, perhaps kill him...but not thou..._ His smile was laden with self-mockery as he raised his head, and Glorfindel turned to face him, a golden sun juxtaposed to a burning dark star.

_I have to win the Great Games. I have to be favored, make this madman so glutted with pleasure that he takes me into his confidence. I have to be close to him to discover what power he has struck a deal with. He dreams of an Empire, conquered by me, his warrior-whore. And is that not what I was molded to be, Glorfindel? _ He laughed into the star-silvered night with excoriating pain. _Is it not?_ ~

~~~

 

 


	31. Cleansed

  
The fire that raged through him at the furious kiss swept Glorfindel's mind back – to Fëanor long ago in Tirion, to the Last Alliance. He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them and they shared the same wild light as Vanimórë's.   
  
_ He is so dangerous. He could become too terrible for Arda. And I will not permit that. He must not waste himself as Sauron and Morgoth did._   
  
His mind flashed to what he had seen – or rather not seen.   
  
_Impenetrable darkness, such as hid Morgoth when he fled Aman... _  
  
He watched as Vanimórë considered his silent words, the hard face grew graver for a moment.   
  
“Is there no other way?"   
  
"Whatever inhabits the isle would run before power – sometimes, power is of no aid, is it, Golden One? Have we not been made to know that?"   
  
Yes they had. Glorfindel had been sorely tempted, but he was dealing with his own people, knew them intimately, and never again would any of them feel as if the Valar overwatched them. There were some who challenged him as if daring him to break his own resolutions, and like Vanimórë, he feared to unleash might. There was no training for this, he thought, no apprenticeship. There was only their own consciences, and in the end, love. And even love stretched thin at whiles.   
  
"This is not as it was in the Last Alliance," he said.   
  
Vanimórë smiled unexpectedly. "For me, it is not so different. I sought comfort in a way. And comfort has been given to me, I only have to reach out for it and I cannot. I will not do that to him." One hand drew down the Glorfindel's chest, the other clenched in his hair.   
"I killed a woman in Umbar, a poor whore, selling her body for coin. It was not intentional. I feared to touch Elgalad before, and I fear it doubly now. But thou, I cannot harm.  
  
"I am not something to _use,_ Vanimórë !"   
  
"I do not wish to use thee – I wish thee to show me what thou didst show me before, under Mordor's crimson sky."   
  
They faced one another, Vanimórë lifted a brow, then shrugged and turned away, melted into fire. Glorfindel cursed, startled and then followed the traces of power in the air and realized where the other was going. He vanished, following.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
As when he had entered Aman, driven by love and the will of the One, the land raced toward him, a crumpled rug pulled from under his feet. A louring wall of mountains sped beneath him, and was gone. The land was dark and silent now, which once had seethed with orcs, and Barad-dûr was gone, but Orodruin still stood on its ashen plain, and looking down, Vanimórë saw the glint of ember fire below.   
  
He hung above it and raised his hands as if drawing something up from the earth. Lava ran in his veins, burned a sudden preternatural red into his eyes. He threw back his head and laughed.  
  
Glorfindel remembered the fire of the Balrog, the furnace-roar of its enraged bellow which had destroyed his face, thought of the molten rock that had melted the One Ring, which could burn away living flesh in a heartbeat.   
  
**_ No !_** He dived after Vanimórë, dropped down the central cone of the volcano and in an explosion heard as far away as Rohan, Orodruin woke from its sullen dormancy. Liquid stone jetted into the air. They were within it, and Glorfindel felt no heat, even while he was aware of it. He was part of it. He reached out, caught Vanimórë by his hair, and drew him hard against his chest.   
  
They were part of the Earth's blood, their own was molten, and Glorfindel was suddenly, furiously hard. Vanimórë must not plunge past this fire, into the depths, to the darkness which waited for him on the other side, to Morgoth. He thrust violently, felt the muscles clench about him, heard the inner groan as the black head fell back.  
  
Vanimórë exulted. Glorfindel was heat, beauty, _passion._ Shame and humiliation both were blasted from him with each slam into his body, for Glorfindel spared him nothing in his sun-storm of wrath. And through the possession, pleasure climbed, climbed like the soaring detonations of lava and the aether exploded into light. They burned as the core of the stars and it was primal; a mating of Gods.   
  
Spent, silent they hung in a place where stars passed through them like tiny, glowing gems, Vanimórë lazily reached out a hand, watched while a yellow sun drifted through his fingers and he turned, looked at a greater sun, its golden hair spread across eternity, while his own weaved into Night.   
  
_ My thanks._ Their lips met, gentler now, a kiss of fraternity, a meeting of two opposites, who were not so opposite at all, before they parted.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Glorfindel said nothing when he returned to the haven. What had happened had been necessary, not an act of love, but of the continued balance of power. They had been Power, existing in fire beyond the world, it seemed to bear no relation at all to his love for Legolas. Maglor and Tindómion had remained with him, and these two he trusted, knowing where their hearts lay, even if it caused them both pain and confusion. Maglor was harping gently, the sound poignant and enchanting. All three came to their feet as he entered, curious, but silent.  
  
He drew Legolas toward him, kissed him first with gentleness, then with an uprush of passion which he brutally checked. Power still seethed in him; he dared not touch the prince until he tamped it down. He had come too close before.   
  
Maglor said quietly, "Shall we go?"   
  
"No, wait, if thou wilt. I wish to speak to thee after."   
Glorfindel left the house to walk on the shore, let the pre-dawn stillness calm him, his anger run away into it like smoke.  
  
The sound of horses hooves on shingle approached, and he turned slowly. He did not hear the soundless drop of the rider to the ground, but he felt him. The radiance was perilous. It suddenly broke upon Glorfindel that this one was not so different to Vanimórë, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Vanimórë was not unlike Fëanor.   
  
''What ails thee? all the way yonder I felt thine unease.''   
  
''Unease?'' Glorfindel laughed shortly. ''Yes, unease is a fitting word. Vanimórë faces something very dark, yet I think together we can discover what it is and destroy it. But it is not that alone.''  
  
Fëanor's brows rose. ''Maglor told me of thy journey to the south. The only time I have seen this expression on thy face was in Tirion.'' With studied arrogance not devoid of self-mockery he added: ''After I had thee.''  
  
''What would that expression be, regret?'' The words were smashed back in challenge, and Fëanor uttered a soft laugh.   
  
''Guilt, nephew. Does Legolas know?''   
  
Glorfindel felt his temper surge upward and warned, "Do not concern thyself in my duties, Fëanor, or my life, _or_ Legolas' "   
  
"Duties? Ah, well, if thou wilt call them that..."   
  
"Thou," Glorfindel snarled, suddenly, "Thou art at the root of this, since Tirion. The answer is, no, now leave it be. It was a matter of power, not of love."   
  
There was a feral gleam in Fëanor's eyes. He glittered in the darkness,  
"Come, talk to me." It was a king's command. "Thou art troubled."   
  
''Yes, I am,'' Glorfindel admitted. ''Vanimórë troubles me. He acts as a whore to a Mortal ruler, and it drove him too close to the darkness. Yet, I believe he is right and there is no other safe way. But that path is a vile one.''   
  
''And so thou offered thy Light. How very...good of thee.'' Fëanor's voice was suave, teasing, his eyes luminous.  
"Sometimes there need not be love, there need only be lust. We know this, why seek excuses?" He smiled as he pulled Glorfindel close, and kissed his brow. ''What else?" he asked.  
  
''Nothing that will affect us here, I think...This is all I know as yet. There is something dark, hidden on a southern island. I believe that is why Vanimórë is there and why he has to conceal what he is. I have felt nothing like it since the darkness which hid Morgoth as he fled Aman, after the Trees were destroyed.''   
  
''Ungoliant?'' Fëanor's expression became more intent. ''Darkness...''   
Pain crossed his face, brutal memories of that time when Maedhros and Maglor had come, bloody and anguished, to tell him that Melkor had attacked Formenos and slain Finwë, that the Silmarilli had been stolen.   
  
''It cannot be Ungoliant," Glorfindel said slowly. "It is said she devoured herself, ever hungering until there was naught that would satisfy her but her own self. But many evil things dwell in the world which crept into Arda long before the Elves awoke. I cannot see what it is, neither can Vanimórë, and he will not leave Tanith until it is uncovered and destroyed. I will aid him. In a sense he is a brother to me."   
  
"Sometimes _brothers_ can share many things" Fëanor smiled like a cat. "It is good to see thee burn. Our fire was never _meant_ to die, only in Aman did it grow dim. As the Valar purposed.'' He ran a hand down Glorfindel's hair and then spun and strode to his mount.   
"Keep me informed," he threw over his shoulder before cantering away.   
  
He was still smiling an unfathomable smile as he rode through groves of silver birch toward a great mansion whose long gardens ran down to the water. Leaving the horse to graze, he stepped up onto a long balcony and into the room behind it.   
  
Fingolfin had been reading, but the book had been laid aside and a goblet of wine stood close by. Fëanor took a gemmed cup from a table and poured from a pitcher, then flung himself down on the padded settle.  
  
"My home is thine of course," Fingolfin said wryly.   
  
''I thank thee.'' Fëanor saluted and drank.  
  
''What is amiss?'' He regarded the fierce beauty of his half-brother's face, reading the expressions on it effortlessly.   
  
''We should know more of what happens in the world beyond, brother.'' Fëanor lifted his booted feet onto a covered stool.   
  
''What has brought this on? Glorfindel's leaving?" his brother asked. "Is there a problem?"   
  
"He says nothing that will affect us. He is concerned about Vanimórë." A smile played on the lovely mouth, and Fingolfin's eyes dwelt on it for a moment before he forced his gaze otherwhere.  
"A brother, Glorfindel names him. Brothers as we were brothers.''   
  
''Get to the root of the matter, Fëanor.''  
  
''I am not sure what it is yet, but I have been wondering about the world beyond.'' His eyes returned to Fingolfin's face, and his voice dropped to a warm whisper.  
''This dancing around one another is delightful, is it not?''  
  
Fingolfin, taken by surprise, although he knew he should not be, said, knowing his face was blank, "What meanest thou?" And Fëanor laughed.  
He rose, leaned over Fingolfin, who did not move and murmured, "I seduced thee once, my valiant brother. More than once, actually. I will again, when thou dost _ask_ me. And thou wilt."   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
Vanimórë drew Elgalad back against him, holding him as he slept, feeling the sorrow in his soul.   
  
_ Meluion, if thou didst know how much I want thee. But I am not clean. I never will be. Were I not so selfish, I could wish that thou hadst loved another, forgotten me...But that was never to be the way of it was it. Thou didst know before I did. _  
  
As if Elgalad felt those thoughts he turning his head, his lips seeking Vanimórë's. The hard arousal pressed against him, and he woke fully, aching for it. At least he was desired.   
  
''More than desired.'' Vanimórë growled low in his throat, a sound of pure hunger. ''If only I could possess thee without stripping from thee the innocence which makes thee so precious.''  
  
"It is for th-thee. Dost thou still n-not understand? _I_ am for thee."  
  
Vanimórë drew back and looked into the great, pale eyes with tenderness, with desperate need, and with love.   
  
_Oh, Meluion, I would use thee too hard and burn thee, and I fear that more than anything! If only thou wert not so very high above me in all ways._   
  
"I swear to thee on anything that is left of my honor that I love thee." He took the beautiful, mournful face in his hands and kissed the lips offered him until all Elgalad moaned, writhing against him.   
  
''I must be found in my chambers when the Emir's lapdogs awake." He drew back reluctantly, hands in the silver hair. "Stay with Anwyn, none has yet said aught against it. The prince will have sent people to look for Elphir, it may take a little time, but he lives. Nevertheless, he too, must endure until this Game is played to its end.''  
  
The slanting sun poured golden through the lace-work of stone, sending patterns blossoming over the woman's sleeping face.   
  
''I will see thee both in a short time.'' He pressed one more kiss on Elgalad's brow, and then he walked away and was...gone.  
  
Elgalad pressed his hands to his eyes and took a deep breath, then rose, feeling flushed and roused. He filled an urn with water, poured a goblet for when Anwyn awoke, and drank wine which was now tepid from standing all night, but eased his swollen throat. Looking at Anwyn, her face still troubled in sleep, he slid into the bed beside her and held her, hoping the gesture would sink through into her dreams.   
  
~~~


	32. I Will Hold For You

(Written by Anwyn)

Hate and bitter rage sent bile up into his throat each time the heavy manacles clinked. This burning fury was his only constant companion in many weeks.

Elphir was now a sight far removed from the man whom had accompanied his wife out on a ride. The rich tunic was torn and stained, long hair fell in untamed strands across his face, caked with filth, but through it, his eyes still blazed brightly. Perhaps only by his eyes and bearing might any-one identify him as a Prince of Dol Amroth, for he carried himself still with unconscious nobility.

The iron chains clinked as he rose, moving within the small space the restraints permitted. It would be all too easy to surrender to hopelessness in this dank, foul-smelling place, but Elphir refused to succumb. They had tried to break his will; he had gone many days without eating, and at first what little water he had been given he used to wash himself, but it became more imperative, he knew, that he drink. A man could live far longer without food than without water.

His features were gaunt now, cheekbones thrown into sharp relief. Clearly this treatment was intended to simply keep him alive. He felt hollow, torn and would not feel whole until he found his wife. The beautiful day when last they were together and free was overshadowed by the memory of Anwyn being forcibly dragged from him even as he fought to reach her. The image haunted his thoughts and threatened to weaken him more swiftly than imprisonment and semi-starvation.

The air was still in this place, almost silent save for the movement of tiny insects and the occasional scurry of a rodent. At times Elphir was visited by his captors, those men he had first encountered in Dol Amroth. They came to mock him, and when one drew too near, Elphir had broken his arm with such fierce efficiency that even the man's open-mouthed wail of agony had been delayed. The prince had been savagely beaten for it, and did not regret his actions for one heartbeat.

There were others that joined them as the voyage continued: men and woman who wore simple loose clothing, and kept heads and eyes passively lowered. Slavery was a practice Elphir abhorred, but was a common trade in the south, human beings were bought and sold on like cattle. They were pitiful. Many of them were ill and far too thin; he thought some would not survive the voyage.

He fought constantly against the fear and uncertainty that threatened to overcome him, like a boiling pot about to spill over. Each day brought a fresh reminder to him that the ship journeyed further and further away from the place where had last set eyes upon his wife, further from hope of finding her again.

Ýridhren never missed a chance to mock his captive Prince with dark glee It was shocking to realize that a man once considered so noble could twist into the treacherous creature that now stood before Elphir. However, the renegade Swan Knight was no fool, and had ensured that the prisoner was kept bound. Even in a weakened state, Imrahil's son was a formidable threat, as he had proven several times. Elphir had inherited all the natural grace and strength of his father, and while Prince Imrahil was a wise man and just ruler, he was also a fierce warrior. Ýridhren knew this firsthand and saw much of Imrahil in Elphir, and it had, over the years, only exacerbated his jealousy and dislike of the Royal House of Dol Amroth. It was said that the line of Princes carried Elven blood in it's veins from an ancient union between the founder of the principality and an Elven maid. Ýridhren had dismissed this as myth because he wanted to, having no great love for the legends which concerned the Elves.  
Now, he kept a prudent distance between himself and his captive, after sending servants to ensure there was nothing the prince might use as a weapon. As a boy, Elphir had always been a swift and eager pupil and now the much older Ýridhren was himself unwilling to be on the receiving end of those lessons taught so long ago.

Judging now that he was in no danger, Ýridhren grew more confident, and allowed some of his viciousness to spill out in words concerning Anwyn. He mused aloud at the irony of a horse-loving Rohirrim woman becoming the favored mount of some wealthy merchant. A booted foot swiftly struck out, sweeping Ýridhren’s legs from beneath him, but he had the sense to quickly roll away before the second blow fell, which might have broken his leg. Elphir was being pushed quickly towards a breaking point.  
Furious, Ýridhren cursed as he picked himself up, spat upon the prince and limped to the cabin door. Through the haze of his anger, he realized he had become too complacent, and wondered how someone in such a predicament could still have the strength and will to fight.

Some days after this, the ship reached Tanith. It was mid afternoon and the sun rode high in a cloudless sky. The docks were a flurry of activity, and there were none that granted a second glance to Elphir or the other slaves who were lead from the ship to covered carts.

Tanith. The name repeated itself like a distant whisper in the Prince's mind. Though he had often journeyed with his father, never had they ventured this far south. The carts began to roll and they journeyed in stifling heat made more unbearable by the unwashed stench of cramped bodies.

While at all times he found himself in the presence of others, a heavy silence hung over him and Elphir found himself lost in thought. He was no fool and knew how the women of the Harad were treated. He did not approve, but they were not his lands and he had seen some who were not misused. Anwyn, however, would have spoken out against it, which was why he had elected not to allow her to accompany him to Umbar. Even in Dol Amroth Elphir had come to know that there were those of the court whom believed his wife to be too strong-willed, and while he had always cherished such spirit, he knew that it would not gain her any favor amongst those of more traditional beliefs.

It caused a chill to surge through him, the slow realization that perhaps she had become one of these women, kept for pleasure. Impossible! Anwyn would choose death before she would give herself to another. But then, she would not be _giving_ herself to any-one. Concubines in the south were there to be used by whomever bought them.

A set of dark eyes peered up at him from a nearby corner, and Elphir glanced quickly away. It was to add a greater insult to injury that he was unable to seek out she whom he so loved. Dark, violent thoughts plagued him constantly.

He could not recall drifting to sleep, for his dreams were just as tormented as the thoughts that plagued him while he was awake, filling him with despair such as he had never known. But this night it was different, as his head fell back against the cool stone, a voice entered his mind, which he at once recognized, though at first believed it a prelude to madness.

_Prince Elphir. Anwyn lives. She will hold for thy sake and thou must hold for hers._

He lifted his head as though he had been addressed aloud. _Please, let this be true! _ he silently pleaded, as for a moment the dark swirling mists were parted and he cried out to his wife. Oh, how he ached to feel her! At times, he cried out to her in his sleep and struggled against the bonds that still held him.  
_I shall hold on for you, my love!_ he called as the darkness once again moved forward to claim him. _I shall hold for you! I swear it!_

~~~

Anwyn began to wake slowly. Sleep had come upon her so swiftly she did not recall falling asleep, in fact she did not even remember coming to bed.

The first thing she woke to was a sense of deep contentment. In her dreams she had walked in lands familiar to her, returning to happier times, like this...to awake her husband beside her. _Elphir,_ she thought drowsily, draping an arm about his waist, basking in the bliss of his presence.

Yet something was amiss.

Though her arm was draped across a slender waist, and her head rested against a hard, flat chest, as her eyes slowly opened she looked upon a face that certainly did not belong to her husband. But she did not immediately move away, for there was something so peaceful about Elgalad that she wished to draw upon it for a moment.

Elgalad’s eyes were open but unfocused, as all Elves appeared when they slept, although for a moment it caused her a start of surprise, thinking him conscious. Carefully, she closed her own eyes, allowing her head to fall lightly to the pillow as color flushed across her features. She had so deeply wished to believe that she was sleeping with Elphir that it brought a lump to her throat to realize he was not there, yet it was a most welcome sensation to awaken and to feel, even briefly, protected and safe.

“Thank you, Elgalad,” she whispered.

Tanith.  
It had many times struck her as odd that her path should have crossed with Vanimórë and Elgalad. She had been musing on such a coincidence the previous evening, and thought on it again now.  
Tanith.  
From what little she had seen it appeared a thriving city, though she did not ever recall seeing it upon the richly illustrated maps that adorned the walls of Prince Imrahil’s study. It was entirely possible that not even Imrahil had heard of it. It was so far south, or at least she guessed by the length of the voyage, that the Prince had probably never sailed this far.

She moved carefully, thinking back to the evening. She did not know what had caused Elgalad such sorrow but to see one so kind and gentle in pain had upset her deeply. Not wishing to disturb him if he had found some peace in sleep, she lay still, allowing her thoughts to wander, and constantly reining them back when they became unbearable.

Entering the rooms completely unannounced, Anwyn was beginning to understand, was quite usual in Tanith, as Enoch burst in flanked by several guards. She pushed herself up with a gasp, her startled gaze meeting the dark one of the Emir’s servant whose eyes narrowed accusingly.

“Filthy, unfaithful harlot!” he raged at her. The words stung her like barbs piercing her flesh. She did not flinch away but they were flung with such violence that the accusation actually hurt.

“Leave us!” she cried, flinging back the covers and quickly coming to her feet. She did not yet fear Enoch though she knew that she should. Placing herself before the tall captain of the guard, she tilted up her chin, her expression outraged.  
“How dare you? You shall not enter the rooms of your queen unannounced!” Her tone as sharp as the edge of any one of the blades that Enoch carried on his person.

The man drew back his hand as though to strike her for disrespect and then checked himself, slowly lowering his hand. An expression of hostility remained etched upon his pinched features but Anwyn did not flinch.

“You are not yet Queen,” Enoch spoke through tightly gritted teeth, though he knew that this was the day that the Emir intended to reveal her future elevation to that rank.

_As I pray to the All-Father I will never be!_ Anwyn thought silently to herself though her face remained unchanged in the face of the man’s anger.

“You have no reason to doubt me, ” Anwyn answered tersely, though it was with some effort that she kept her tone steady in face of one whom she despised with all of her being. _Although not as much as his damned master!_

“You are found in bed with another and I am to believe this?!” Enoch pressed her, though his tone was quieter as though he were addressing a small child whom did not truly know of what they spoke.

Anwyn folded her arms across her chest, in an unconscious gesture that was she preparing to shut Enoch out completely, and raised a slender brow.  
“We are watched are we not?”

A look of great surprise passed over his features. That there were spies behind every wall was certainly common knowledge, but Anwyn was a stranger and should not have known about them so quickly.

“Speak with your watchers,” Anwyn’s tone was flat as she turned away, the gesture dismissive, though she paused slightly glancing over her shoulder. “They shall tell you that nothing has passed this night that need cause you any concern.”

Enoch felt a burning flash of rage move through him, for in truth neither he or any of his men could say naught differently. All had slept this night like men drunk on wine, himself included, and he certainly did not intend for the Emir to learn of such a dereliction of duty.

With a small gesture Enoch’s men faded from the room as did he, and Anwyn loosed a long breath she had not realized she had held. When she was certain that all had retreated, she raised her eyes to Elgalad and offered him a mischievous smile. The encounter had left her feeling somewhat shaken, for it seemed in this place that a misstep could prove itself fatal, and she had great reason to take care and be mindful of her words and actions. ~

~~~


	33. There Is Strength In Silver

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

Elgalad berated himself for putting Anwyn in the position she found herself. He was even blushing, as if he had indeed been caught doing something wrong. But it was not wrong to give comfort. Had Enoch struck Anwyn, he would have acted, regardless of the repercussions, but her authority had caused the man to draw back. He was not quite sure, Elgalad thought, of how much influence she had now, or would have in the future and was being cautious. He was in an an invidious position, no doubt familiar with the instability of the Emir, who could favor some-one one day and order them stripped of everything the next. Elgalad had waited, curbed by Vanimórë's voice in his mind telling him to remain silent.

''Forgive m-me.'' Elgalad rose and took Anwyn's hands, then remembering the spies, he put his lips close to her ear, his breath scarcely stirring her hair. "The blame is m-mine. My l-lord wishes m-me to remain close to thee, as often and as l-long as I can, and there are th-those looking for Elphir even n-now." Drawing back, he looked directly into her eyes and gave an infinitesimal nod of reassurance.

~~~

It took longer for the Emir to wake than the majority of Tanith. Touched by an ancient darkness as he was, Taraluk was yet a Mortal who could suffer from over-indulgence. He woke heavy-headed and foul-tempered, and it was some time before wine revived him to his more normal state. He gave orders and his slaves came to prepare him for the evening, at which time he planned to watch his favored Death Fighter.

Gthar was abroad early. The word had gone out among those he trusted: to find a man of the North among the teeming thousands of slaves in Tanith. Gthar was not optimistic, but when his Prince had sketched the face he had been shown by Vanimórë, Gthar believed this one would stand out. He might be used as a House Guard, a Body-guard, might even be entered for the Games by whomever owned him. Khanad had described him as tall, noble and undoubtedly a warrior, and it was unlikely that he would be used in a menial position. There was a reward in gold, and Gthar and Khanad hoped that this would bring some information.  
By the end of that day nothing had been learned, but Gthar had not expected it; in a city full of slaves, it could take a weary time.  
It was late afternoon when he strolled with his Prince in the enclosed gardens and the scent of the hot flowers of the south was thick as incense.

"Nothing yet, my Lord. It will take time." He spoke behind his fan.

''I know," Khanad said resignedly. "I wish the woman would trust me, and the Elf. It would give us more to work with." Information was often worth more than all the gold in the realm. ''It has been reported that she was left alone this day, as were the others. My father indulged himself heavily yester-eve.''

''He grows ever more addicted to the narcotics. matters may become...easier, if it continues, '' Gthar breathed.

The answer was an almost imperceptible nod. Khanad crossed an ornamental bridge over an small pond, pausing to look down at where fish moved like gold and red flames. Mosquito's, attracted to the standing water, droned, and gave the prince opportunity to ply his own fan, sending them skittering with sweeps of perfumed air.

''But it is not just the narcotics which is in his blood, as we know. He takes enough to kill most men and suffers only the effects I would did I took too much wine.''

The unspoken loomed between them: the Emir's agelessness, his vices, the Black Ship, the Isle of Plagues...

''We cannot wager on him dropping dead of too much poppy,'' agreed Gthar, through the feathers. ''And if the dark Elf wins the Games, proves a good commander, as I believe he will, I would not give a bent copper for your life, my lord. I still advocate his death, and his companion's _and hers_ – listen, I pray you! Even were she utterly without ambition – and by the One, how could any woman desire what _he_ gives? she is a danger to you ! She would see you dead in a heartbeat if it got her what she wished !''

Khanad raised his brows wryly.  
''And why not, what am I to her, but the one who bought her and would have taken her unwilling, although by the Gods, I would have given her some pleasure!" He set his teeth. ''Trust comes hard to me, but I wish to know what this Vanimórë purposes. The Great Games...it all pivots on that, I am certain. No, old friend. None of them are to be touched. Not yet. Hunt for this Northerner. ''

'' Your will, my prince.'' The words came unwilling, and Khanad smiled.  
''I am not unappreciative of your care for me, Gthar. Forgive my whims.''

"Your mother was the same," the man said, roughly. ''And I do not wish to see you end as she did.''

''I think you were the only true friend she ever had,'' the prince said softly. ''She spoke of you with great affection.''

_I would have taken her from this place, made a life with her free of fear and death... _ But Gthar said nothing aloud, bowing and leaving the gardens. Khanad waved away a servant who approached with a tray bearing wine, and strode to his rooms.

Nobles gathered that night, invited by the Emir and arrayed in all their finery. The chamber was a great feast-hall, not the more intimate room of the previous evening, and the guests took seats on long couches set about it. Low tables of food were before them, heavy with wine and delicacies which they picked at, ever aware of the presence of their ruler, voices pitched low. Each movement, each word was as carefully calculated as a piece on a board, so as not to be misconstrued by the Emir or his spies. These were lords of the high Houses, their wives and offspring, and all were as wary as the lowest slave.

Taraluk's face was painted gold as a death mask, and was as impassive, but his eyes, despite his consumption of honeyed wine, were everywhere, missing nothing. Enoch stood behind him and guards were ranked behind and at walls and doors. Paranoia was as thick in the air as the incense which floated lazily from the braziers.

The court rose as the doors opened and the golden haired woman was escorted in. The nobles had not seen her before and devoured her with avid eyes, already wondering how long she would last once the crown was on her head. She was robed in blue and gold with a circlet about her brow, her hair dressed high and set with gems of great price, her eyes, face and lips were tinted with gold dust, kohl and carmine. It was almost amusing, thought Khanad, to see the amount of frantic thought that went into the depth of the bows displayed – not as deep as to the Emir, nor yet he himself, lower than to a peer. The Emir did not rise, though his eyes ate her alive as Enoch conducted her to a seat close by.

The doors had remained open to admit the Elves, and the court hummed with speculation. Most had seen Vanimórë in the arena but now he was before them, remote, magnificent and seemingly unperturbed by the concentrated weight of the eyes upon him. His unrelieved black garb was as severe as a curse, contrasting sharply with the gems and plumage displayed in the hall. The other Elf was silver-fair, clad only in a short tunic, girdled with gold links, and he kept his eyes downcast.

Vanimórë's bow to the Emir was insouciant, a warriors salute to one he served but did not fear.

''You are brought here this eve to entertain us, Elf.'' Taraluk raised a hand, and the three more people entered, all men and clearly fighters. Khanad's brow creased as he saw Luathan Red-Hand, the champion of the Games from last year, hugely muscled, wearing the red-stained linked metal that was his signature. He carried in his hands the great double-headed axe called _Soul-sender._ The other men were younger, a tall black warrior from the savannas of the north, and the third was a lithe Easterner, deceptively fragile to look upon whose shaven head bore one long tail of hair. They carried themselves with the confident air of men who knew their worth and their skills. All were armed. Vanimórë was not.  
The men had seen him, or heard of his fight in the games and hoped to meet him, for if it were indeed true he was of the Elder Race, their fame would be doubly increased if they were to kill him.

''Kill them," Taraluk ordered. "If you can.''

Vanimórë did not even acknowledge the command. He simply attacked.

The axe-man was very fast. Many people considered the axe a clumsy weapon, but in the right hands it could be terrifying, for one skilled enough did not simply hack with it, but could reverse the stroke,and bring it back.

Luathan brought his great weapon back, then swung it in a sideways sweep that could decapitate or smash through neck and torso. Vanimórë ducked under the lethal blade in a blur and spun, one foot impacting behind the man's knee, sending him lurching forward, whirled and kicked again. Luathan's wrists were protected by vambraces, but whatever shock was sent through the metal into his bones tore a yell from his throat. The axe-heads rang on the floor, and he moved to pick it up with his uninjured wrist, even as Vanimórë leaped like a cat onto his back, locking his arms about the man's neck. It seemed impossible; Luathan's trapezius were thick as an ox's, but every-one there watched as the Elf's muscles corded, and all heard the crack as Luathan's vertebrae snapped. Even before his body fell, Vanimórë swept up the axe, and ducked as a blade whined over his head, reversed by the young Eastern warrior, who smiled coolly.

''Lucky,'' he mocked in his native tongue and Vanimórë replied in the same language: ''There is no _luck_ in single combat.''  
Axe and sword clanged loudly as metal slapped metal, and the black warrior, coolly gauging, drew a diamond-shaped throwing knife from a baldric across his chest.

''_No !_'' Something hit him from behind, and he went down with the silver-haired elf in a flurry of limbs as the court, drunk with excitement came to their feet. The tribesman got one arm free, but was heaved backward by a knee in the stomach. He struck upward with the knife he held and the bade ripped down Elgalad's arm, even as he kicked out, slamming the hand down and breaking the wrist-bones with his heel.

Vanimórë pushed. The Eastern fighter found himself unable to gain purchase on the polished marble and gave back, straining with effort, then threw himself back in a somersault. The axe blade whistled as it came around in one hand – and sheared through the torso at the waist.

A hand grasped Elgalad's leg and he bent and drove the stiffened fingers of his hand into the soft flesh under the warrior's throat. There was a choke, a gurgle as the windpipe was crushed and the man went limp. Blood dripped from Elgalad's hand, ruby droplets scattering on the white stone.

The chamber echoed with the cheers of the audience. The deaths had taken so little time, and there were those like Khanad, like Gthar, who recognized that no move the Elves used had been wasted, that they had used every position they put themselves in, to bring them to another which would allow them to injure or kill. The fair one had exploded from his place out of fear for his lover, Khanad thought, and he too was a warrior, it seemed. Tearing a long piece of material from his headdress and handed it to Vanimórë. Blood soaked into it as he bound bound it tightly about the cut, and he smiled lovingly into the rain-grey eyes before he turned back to the Emir.

''Any more, Most High?'' he asked, languidly, as blood spread in viscous pools on the polished floor.

Taraluk's eyes were bright as he sat forward. It would be foolish to assume that this man was stupid, thought Vanimórë, even through the fumes of the wine and lagging after-effects of his opium indulgence.

''I did not know he could fight also.'' The Emir moistened his lips like a cat over a bowl of cream. He gestured to one of the Royal Guard. ''Give him a sword.''

There was a flutter through the bejeweled dovecote of guests as a shadow fell over the threshold. Silence fell.

The man was huge. To Elgalad, accustomed to the lithe tautness of his own race, he seemed swollen, but Vanimórë had seen this before; some men sought to deliberately inflate their muscles to gigantic proportions. The trapezius rendered the neck almost invisible, and the biceps were as thick around as Vanimórë's waist. Savage scars marked his torso, one brutal cut had smashed his nose and narrowly avoided taking out an eye. Under a low ridge of bone the eyes were cunning, dark as a bears. Oil glossed his skin, used to prevent an opponent gripping, and he wore only a kilt of leather reinforced with bronze discs. He carried a length of chain and a sword fully five feet in length.

''This is Doralis.'' Taraluk smiled again as he sat back.

No-one else in the chamber needed to be told the name. The man was infamous. There were no executions in Tanith or its subject cities, but the Emir was willing to overlook certain rough sport by his pet killer. It was whispered that Doralis enjoyed young boys, tearing them apart as he raped them, and biting out chunks of flesh which he swallowed in frenzied lust.

Taraluk pointed at the fair Elf and Doralis smiled, showing teeth filed to points.

Vanimórë stepped forward.

''Did I tell you to move, Slave?'' Taraluk's words echoed through his mind, a mockery from the past. _Slave, slave....._ and he stared at Elgalad, whose eyes were wide on his.

''Your... companion seemed eager to join the fight. I am curious to see more of his skills.''

_ Meluion..._

A flush burned onto the high cheeks.  
_I can take him, my lord! _

Vanimórë's mouth set and he folded his arms with apparent unconcern.

Elgalad received the hilt of a blade in his hand and turned to face the gigantic man. They presented a jarring image, one touching seven feet, emanating a brutal blood-lust, the other tall and beautiful, the thick, hair loose as a maiden's, skin white as milk.

Doralis swung the chain, brought it around and out in a savage hiss, and Elgalad hurled himself into a tight back-flip. He heard a grunt as the man hit nothing but air, and raised his sword.

Khanad cursed under his breath as Doralis' massive weapon hammered down like a butcher's cleaver. He saw the Elf come up to his knees, raise his own blade, and brace for the impact.

The shock sent shivers through Elgalad's muscles as he locked them, hearing the scream of steel against steel, holding...holding, knowing that if he did not he was dead. The pressure increased and he set his teeth, bringing one leg up, slowly, then pushed forward from the ball of his foot.

Doralis found his own sword unexpectedly driven back with a strength he had not expected, then the pressure eased as the Elf used the moment to disengage and spin behind him.

The man followed the momentum, bringing the chain into play; again and again the Elf whirled out of reach, turning like a dancer. Spiked links struck sparks from the marble, and Doralis grunted as a sharp pain spread over his back, cold and icy. He roared like an animal. Elgalad's arm was soaked red under the makeshift bandage as his heart-rate increased, but he was oblivious of it. He thought if he could get under the reach of both the brute's weapons then he would have a chance, and he stepped back in preparation to move quickly.

His feet skidded on the pool of spilled blood from the Easterling's body; he felt himself loose balance and turned it into a somersault, arching back and flipping fully over to regain his feet, before meeting Doralis' sword again.

For one moment, they locked with a dull ring, and then the slimmer blade snapped at the hilt.

There was an open-throated yell from the guests as the Elf threw himself down. Doralis' sword cracked on marble, and then the chain smashed down, tangling Elgalad's legs as he rolled.

**_Meluion! _** Vanimórë's voice echoed in the aether.

Looking up, Elgalad saw an inhuman smile gape as the man slowly, with relish, raised his weapon for the death stroke.

Elgalad's legs were bound. His hands were not. With a snake-swift move, he reached under the armored kilt, wrapping a hand around the pulsing cock. And he tore it violently, with a terrible wet sound from the man's body.

The smile became an opened mouthed scream of pain. Blood poured from Doralis' groin, splashing down over the stone. His hands released their grip on chain and sword as they desperately fell to clasp the wound. He fell to his knees, his screams rebounding from the pillars.

Feeling nauseated, Elgalad cast aside the thing he held in his hand, and struggled with the chains.

Through the copper smell of arterial blood, a familiar, rich odor reached him, and Vanimórë knelt and carefully unwound the links. He raised Elgalad and for a moment, they might have been alone as they looked at one another.

''That was a _very _ dirty move, Meluion,'' he murmured.

''I k-know,'' Elgalad said. Aftershocks of relief beginning to catch up with him, but he held himself straight as a lance, bleeding, streaks of crimson marking his short tunic and long hair.

''I am proud of thee.'' And Vanimórë's smile lit up the room like a torch as they turned to face the Emir, whose face for a moment showed shock and chagrin. Then, as he nodded and slowly brought his hands together in applause, the room erupted in hysterical cheers, the pounding of hands on tables.

Khanad, in the roar and swirl of confusion, moved toward his father and laid a hand briefly on Anwyn's stiff back as he passed.

~~~

 


	34. And In Gold

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
Anwyn’s posture softened as the doors were again closed and she turned back to Elgalad, like a cat that arched its back and held itself stiffly in the presence of dogs. The smile did not fade from her features; she had found herself increasingly annoyed with being treated as a simpleton and was at last able to speak freely though she was aware such a liberty might come at a high price.

“There is nothing to forgive” She murmured giving the hands that had woven into her own a small, reassuring squeeze.  
“I thought…as I slept, that you were Elphir.” Color again washed across her cheeks and she gave a small laugh directed at her own foolishness, but it soon faded She bit down upon her lower lip glancing away for a moment. The mention of her violation caused the deep shame to well up once more within her. It was ever-present but she had learned to overcome it for the most part. Her body had mostly healed, but the humiliation remained raw. She did not mind Elgalad knowing, for he was amongst the very few that she trusted but she perceived that others looked at her and deemed her weak for not enduring what the Emir had done to her.

“There are many things that do not belong in this place,” she whispered, adopting Elgalad’s soft tones. “ If you wish to remain with me…I shall be glad of it,” she confessed though with difficulty, for she was not a child, but in this place or so many secrets and dangers, guarded looks and words unspoken it was of great comfort to be with one whom she trusted.

She drew away slightly, enough so that she could raise her eyes to meet Elgalad’s clear gaze.

“I thank you, for you have brought me great comfort in these….dark days. I shall swear it to you now, that you shall always have the friendship of Dol Amroth, as well as my own.”

She forced herself to sit patiently as the slaves set to work on adorning her; it gave her time to sort through her thoughts and there was much she could not say aloud being so carefully watched. If Khanad truly did seek out Elphir then she should feel relieved, but she could not bring herself to just sit back and wait for word. Torn between trusting the Prince, yet also fearing that he was only far more cunning at deception than his father, it was a difficult path to tread.

The hours slipped away like fine grains of sand between her fingers and before she was remotely ready, the evening was upon them. She was conducted down to the Great Hall by three guards, who remained outside after she entered.

This gathering was a slight shock to her, after being locked away for so long, and she felt a slight shudder of nervousness winging through her even as she forced herself to appear composed.

Eyes fell on her as she took her place,and each pair were another weight pressed upon her, yet she sat straight-backed and aloof. Vanimórë and Elgalad were already in the room and she inclined her head to them in silent greeting. Ironic perhaps that she should acknowledge them alone, for they were also accounted slaves, if highly favored. Yet they were the only two in all of this Kingdom that she respected. As for the Emir, she did not as much turn toward him, deliberate show of contempt which went unnoticed by all including the Emir himself. His attentions were already fixed upon Vanimórë. Her gaze lingered upon him for a long moment then turned to three others who entered. All were armed and Anwyn felt a chill race through her.

_This shall be a slaughter! _she thought with cold certainty.

“Kill them. If you can.”

Her fingers dug sharply into the soft flesh of her palm. Hardly daring to breathe, she watched what unfolded before her: a glorious display of physical prowess on the part of each warrior, each moving with grace and skill. But she knew they would die at Vanimórë's hands. They had been dead as soon as they entered the room, and not for Lord nor country but for _entertainment,_ She bit into her own tongue as crack rang out and the man's neck was broken; in less than a moment his life was snuffed out, so casually that a shiver ran through her bones.

Cheers of approval, like the howls of rabid dogs rang through out the room as those who watched shouted words of encouragement to the warriors. Anwyn had been aware of Elgalad somewhere nearby but his movement was so swift that it was merely a flash of gold from the corner of her eye as he launched himself into the melee. She saw the blade flash down and a hand flew over her mouth as bright red blood flowed from a deep gash in the Elf’s arm. It was hardly a fatal strike but she felt horrified all the same and turned her head away for a moment until a hand touched her arm. She jerked her head up, grey eyes burning with shock and anger to meet the darker gaze of Prince Khanad.

“Watch,” he encouraged quietly, having take the opportunity to approach her while his fathers attentions were upon the fighters.

If his father saw fear in any under him he would use it, and Khanad’s saw that the woman was horrified at this spectacle. Her already fair skin had grown paler with each passing moment. It was imperative Taraluk not see it, for he would find far worse things for her to witness, Khanad knew.

“This is barbaric!” Anwyn hissed between tightly clenched teeth, hot tears gathering at the edges of her eyes. She felt nearly sick with fear for Elgalad who was already wounded.

“Do as I say,” Khanad enjoined quietly. "For your own sake." He slipped away again, meeting her sharp, disgusted look, before she turned back to the fight – to see a man cut cleanly in half. Her gorge rose into her throat and she felt her head spin, and fought to calm herself as the shouts and cheers echoed strangely in her ears. The scent of blood was sharp and sickening in her nostrils.  
She knew that there were times that killing another may be justified: in defense, in battle, but this entertainment was not something she could bring herself to understand. So much blood...the essence of life, spilled profligate and thick across the polished floor.

The men had entered into the match willingly, had seemed eager to meet this new and much favored Death-warrior who had so swiftly gained the Emir’s favor. Only – Vanimórë had not been armed.

_He is a weapon..._ Anwyn thought to herself. The savage grace of his movements had nearly mirrored those of his dance to the Emir the evening prior. The same sinuous power, now transmuted into a way of delivering death.

She looked away but a large hand glided along her shoulder and wove itself into her long hair, forcing her to look up. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she willed the sickness to subside.

The Emir knew of her fondness for Elgalad, for naturally the spies who watched her had reported her movements, such as they were. Anwyn knew that he must know and wondered if she had put Elgalad in danger, if she should have kept him at a distance. She could hardly bear his touch, yet she was in a game, a dreadful, deadly game, and the object was to stay alive long enough to find Elphir. She stilled as a stunned silence fell over all, curiosity forcing her eyes open. And she instinctively shrank back as a great mountain of a man filled the entire doorway.

She stared. She had never seen such a frightening creature, could not bring herself to think of it as a man. The monster's eyes were fixed upon Elgalad save for the briefest of moments when the savage black beads flashed to Emir as though seeking leave to advance upon the Elf.

_Elgalad!_ The pained cry was silent, as she realized Taraluk’s intent.

She was unable to look away as the two fought, the swift agility of the Elf kept him always a step before the hulking beast of a man, who was however, faster than one might have expected. Desperation was an emotion she had become far too familiar with in this past weeks, though now it was not for herself and her cry of denial was swallowed by the crowd's roar as the man swung a chain. Elgalad's legs were caught, and the pain must have been dreadful. Her heart stopped. He was about to die unless his lord, who stood motionless as if watching with mere interest, intervened.

The man’s wail filled the air, and he fell heavily to the ground as fresh blood was added to that which already stained the floor. Anwyn’s eyes rested upon the bloody mass that Elgalad held, and suddenly she could not control her sickness and shot upwards to her feet. The cheers were thunderous. She _had_ to leave this place where the stench of death lay everywhere and she cast desperately about.

_I must go!_

The doors and colonnade were guarded and she had not gone far when Enoch stepped forward, and and Taraluk’s hand curled around her wrist while his arm encircled her jerking her against him. She could feel the press of his erection against her buttocks, and terror turned her blood to ice.

Please no! Wild panic overcame her better judgment and she struggled against the Emir’s hard body like a wild rabbit caught by a hunters snare. Her skin crawled as his hand slid up the column of her throat, gently caressing it and increasing her nausea.

“This is most unbecoming behavior of a future queen,” The soft murmur was too close to her ear, far too intimate though there was no true anger in his words, only a touch of faint amusement.

Taraluk’s gaze moved to where blood gleamed. He breathed deeply as though he wished to savor the coppery aroma and a throaty growl escaped his throat. His lips traced her throat, teasing the delicate flesh, feeling the quick flutter of her heart, of her _blood._ The slender form pressed against his own was tense and without warning, his teeth sank into her flesh. He lapped her blood and felt her shudder, heard her moan.

“Soon,” The Emir rasped against her ear, his breath warm and sour with wine. “You shall understand _true_ desire!” ~

~~~


	35. Dark Lady

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

~ "Why must thou go? I thought Vanimórë was to deal with matters pertaining to Men?"

Ecthelion watched as Glorfindel neatly secured a pack, his arms were folded and there was a closed look on his face. Glorfindel had said nothing, but his demeanor since returning from Tanith had been subtly different.  
Ecthelion took seriously Glorfindel's news of the strange darkness in the south, but he did not entirely trust Sauron's son. Why should he? he knew too little of him. And Glorfindel was still his friend, had always been.

"This matter may involve us also. And he is determined to discover the source of the evil which rules the King and puts a blight upon the city, but it may need a – two pronged attack."

Ecthelion flung up a hand in a gesture of defeat. "Very well. But why does Tindómion go with thee?"

"He knew Elgalad, and cares for him, as do I. And thou knowest as well as I why he offered," Glorfindel straightened. "There will be something I have to do, and I cannot tell thee yet what it is. But remember what I am now and remember to trust me. And thou and Maglor, look to Legolas."

Ecthelion cocked a brow. "No-one would dare touch him, and he is a proven warrior, but why not take him with thee? I do not like this, Glorfindel. What art thou concealing from us? Why wouldst thou leave thy lover behind, knowing Fëanor casts his eyes thither?" There was a little bitterness lingering in the words, but Ecthelion was a noble soul and he would never stoop so low as to turn the remnants of his jealousy upon Legolas. He knew as well as Glorfindel that whatever had been between them had been skewed and smashed forever by Fëanor long ago. If he resented any-one, it was the high king. But deep friendship and trust lay between these two former Lieutenants of Turgon which nothing had the power to break.  
"Legolas is a friend of Elgalad too, is he not?"

Glorfindel paused a moment, unwilling to reveal the exchange of thoughts which had passed between himself and Vanimórë. The truth was, neither of them knew the nature of the darkness in Tanith; that it was something which even they as Valar could not penetrate, was disturbing. Legolas was a puissant archer, he could use his knives with a speed and facility which was breathtaking. In war he would be an asset, yet Glorfindel was not going to war. And if there came a time when both he and Vanimórë were gone...?

"I do not know enough to be able to vow to protect him," he admitted at last, and Ecthelion's eyes became intent.

"What dost thou _think_ it is?" he asked quietly.

"I only know it is darkness," Glorfindel crooked an arm about his friend's neck affectionately. "I do not know yet how we will fight it, and Tanith is a poisonous place, even were there no threat, I would not want Legolas there. I do not like it that Vanimórë has Elgalad there. I would rather he bring him here until this is dealt with."

The door of the chamber opened and Maglor entered, his hand resting on Legolas' back. He shared a look with Glorfindel. Legolas stepped up to his lover and there was concern on his face.

_ Stay with him._

We will. Maglor was troubled that this security was deemed necessary, but he knew his own family well enough to admit there was cause.

"I ask again to come," Legolas said. "How can this be as dangerous as the Quest? Elgalad is there, and Istelion is going."

"No." Glorfindel's reply was uncompromising. He saw a flash in the bright eyes and said: "There is too much I do not know. This is not the Quest, but there could be a danger just as great, perhaps greater since we are unsure what it is. Istelion has fought at my side since the Second Age, and he goes for his own reasons." He drew his fingers down Legolas' cheek and they kissed with slow sensuality, passion burning between them. With regret, Glorfindel at last drew back and laid his hands on the prince's shoulders. "Thou wouldst be far too distracting." _Both to me and the Emir of Tanith._

Ecthelion glanced at Maglor. There was a look of wry acceptance, even a fondness in the eyes of the Lord of the Fountain.

"It is not a Balrog?" Legolas' eyes searched Glorfindel's face.

"No. I would know if it were." Glorfindel was certain of that. He would have felt easier if it had been, for he would know what they faced.

Legolas looked unconvinced. Maglor and Ecthelion moved to his side as if to show Glorfindel that they were ready to give him both guard and company. How similar Elgalad and Legolas appeared sometimes, Maglor thought, and he said, "If thou seest Elgalad, give him my greetings."

"And mine," Legolas added: "And could he not come here, at least for a time? I know he will not want to leave Vanimórë, but a barbaric city of men is no place for him."

Glorfindel had deliberately not told the prince of how Elgalad lived now: almost a slave himself, if one untouched, of his grief at Vanimórë's usage, of his loathing of the fear and darkness in Tanith, and its corrupt ruler.

"Which is precisely why I am not taking thee, but yes, I assure thee, I will bring him, if he wishes it, or if it is needful."

With a last private look, they parted. Glorfindel heard Maglor's voice, mellow and calming, as they walked away along the hall and shook his head. Thranduil had mistrusted and hated the Noldor, and the Fëanorions above all. The word _kinslayer_ was a curse in the Greenwood and had been since Oropher had founded the realm. There was reason for it, and Glorfindel understood the woodland king's unbending antipathy. Yet most of the sons of Fëanor had shown Legolas nothing but courtesy, and in Maglor there was a deeper affection. They did not seem to think it strange that an Aman-born Elda would choose a Sinda prince as his lover. In their separate ways, they understood deep love. Glorfindel trusted them implicitly and Maglor most of all, because he knew that Maglor might be the only one who could truly influence his father if it were needful. He he hoped it would not come to that, but he had spoken with Fingolfin, also.

He belted on his sword, threw back his braided hair and waited for Tindómion, whose voice he now could hear in the passage as he bade farewell to his father.

  
~~~

  
The spikes of the chain had driven deep gouges into Elgalad's flesh and they stung agonizingly. Khanad beckoned a physician over and the man bathed the cuts in wine. Vanimórë removed the blood soaked cloth about Elgalad's arm, unguent was smeared on the wounds and soft bandages wound about them. Elgalad watched in horror as the Emir, apparently roused by the sight and smell of blood, drew Anwyn close and bit her. He stifled a gasp.

_He thrives on this, tonight he will be in need of... release._

The bitter hate in the mind-voice drew Elgalad's eyes to icy violet ones. He swallowed hard.

"Sire," Khanad spoke with smooth deference, "The lady perhaps is unused to such sights."

Taraluk, his teeth smeared with blood, laughed. "She will soon be accustomed my son, not so?"

"Of course, Sire," the prince responded. "But it is known, lord, that you have already filled her with your grace. No woman, not even one of such high blood, will feel...recovered from such a gift in so short a time."

"Indeed," the Emir grunted softly. "They all fail me, ere the end."

"They cannot match you, sire, it is true," Khanad's black lashes hid his eyes as he inclined his head."Who can? But perhaps she needs...rest."

_Gods thou art a smooth one, Prince,_ Vanimórë teased, straight-faced, earning himself a stony look.

Slaves were dragging away the bodies, cleaning up the pools of blood. Taraluk felt Her very close, she was eager, wild, hungry. His throat dried in anticipation. She would have fed on the tribute now, and as a reward would take him into a world he had never known existed, renewing him as she did so.

"Enoch, take her to her chambers." His avid eyes moved to Elgalad, "The wounded one will need to rest also."

"Sire, may Elgalad go with the lady? It is well known a woman's touch is gentle and healing."

Taraluk released Anwyn's hair, considering. There were always spies, and Nothtar had murmured to him that he doubted the fair Elf saw any but Vanimórë, which information Taraluk would use when it pleased him.

"Very well." He gloated at his favored. "And while they rest, you will entertain me...privately."

  
~~~

"Yes, slut...yes...!"

Vanimórë closed his eyes, arched his back, his fingers clenching in folds of silk as Taraluk entered him, burying his length to the hilt with a cry. Pain flared again and again into a grinding scorch, unremitting and terribly familiar.

"Move !" Taraluk watched as the hard buttocks drew forward and slammed back, felt his hardness squeezed until he lost all control and rode Vanimórë as a dog mounts a bitch.

Vanimórë reached back within himself for memories: the brilliant blaze of his coupling with Glorfindel, the sensuous, unexpected wonder of Maglor. His mind fixed upon passion, and upon Elgalad, pure, desirable, as his body was used until Taraluk released and fell against him. His sweat smelled sour, of wine and the poison of drugs.  
Vanimórë did not move, wrestling with the desire to turn and destroy the man with a touch, a word, to rip out his heart, to crush his skull. He almost trembled with the urge to thrust Taraluk from him, and took a controlling breath.

_I will hold._

"_You_ will give me an Empire. _She_ will give me sons who will follow me, loyal, useful." The words were whispered hotly into the delicately pointed ear, hands moved down over the hard chest.

"Yes, sire."

With a sigh of repletion the Emir pushed himself away and reached for wine. Red liquid spilled as he drained the goblet.

"And I will live forever, unlike that fool, Ar-Pharazôn," he muttered. "And now, you must go...it is time."

Instantly alert, Vanimórë cast his mind into the Emir's and floundered into...nothing.

_He stays. We will use him._

The lamps of the room flickered and seemed to grow dim as the Emir fell back upon his bed. And then Vanimórë saw. His eyes widened, and he slammed further mental barricades about himself so that all but the most powerful would sense nothing, would have their sight absorbed as if hitting lodes of iron.

There was nothing but the encroaching darkness to herald what arrived. A woman stepped from the shadows. She was voluptuously beautiful and loathsome, luscious and rotten, skin white as chalk, eyes blacker than jet. Hair the colour of honey fell to her knees, and under the dead-white skin ran traceries of veins like ink.

_Bloody Hells !_

Unfathomable eyes turned to him for an instant, and then she sprang upon the Emir, straddled him, tumbled with him across the bed. The more she gave the more aroused Taraluk became, the more savage, his panting cries echoing in the room. The woman made no sound at all, her face as clean of expression as that of a corpse, her actions skilled and voracious – and...wrong, somehow horribly _wrong..._ as if she were a puppet made of dead skin and bone, jerked by invisible strings.

At last, with a scream, Taraluk collapsed, drained and unconscious, and the room became ominously quiet. The woman rose silently and turned to Vanimórë, and it were as if he were observed by Night itself.

_Elf._

Her nails suddenly flashed out, raking across his chest, leaving red trails of blood, and she raised her fingers and sucked them, tilting her head like a mantis. Her mouth parted over sharp teeth, something which was too unearthly to be a smile split her lips, and she flung back her head in a dreadful parody of rapture.

"Whom art thou?" Vanimórë murmured into the heavy air.

The woman did not reply. There was something older than Time in her, blank as a stone wall. Slowly she backed from him into the web of shadows.

This was the Power he could not see, this was the thing which dwelt in on the Isle, and he had not the remotest idea of what it was. Her form was that of one who had chosen everything that made a female desirable, and yet chosen those parts from dead bodies. All that he sensed was an enormous, unassuagable..._hunger._

_This must be ended, destroyed - whatever it is, whatever it takes. Bloody Hells ! What is it? _ ~

  
~~~


	36. Unsafe Haven

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ As the Emir released her, Anwyn’s hand flew to her throat in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. The blood against her hand was warm, which almost startled her as she was chilled to her very core. She wondered, in her shock, that anything should take her aback and she knew that her face was open and vulnerable. She struggled to recover poise, because she knew instinctively that weakness would prove fatal.

Those who had gathered were swiftly dispersing, carefully skirting the spot where blood was being cleaned from the floor. Two of the Royal Guards detached themselves from the crowd and came forward, steadying Anwyn as she was lead towards another archway from the great hall and towards her room. Uncharacteristically, she did not resist them, indeed, she scarcely took notice of their presence, though as she recalled the sight of Elgalad pulling off the hulking warrior's manhood, she staggered and felt them hold her up.

The marks to her throat would fade with time; the flesh would heal and mend itself, but she felt as she had once when young, bitten by a frightened dog. The Emir had not bitten her out of any fear, however, but from twisted lust. _Worse than any animal! All this night's death was but a game to him!_

When they were a safe distance from the hall, the guards began to speak quietly but excitedly of the death-match. Anwyn felt another swell of sickness rise and fought to shut out the images their words evoked. It seemed the Emir was not the only one who found such sport entertaining.

Having delivered her to her rooms, the guards bowed and left her to take up their positions in the passage. Before they locked the door however, some-one stepped through and Anwyn turned to see Elgalad enter, his legs tightly badged and another dressing about his arm. She tried to smile a greeting, but her tone was terse as she said: “I shall pour wine.”  
Her hands were not as steady as her voice, and the wine sloshed messily into the glass, a scarlet rivulet running down the side and pooling on the table. Trying to steady herself, she knocked the cup and the wine gushed out onto the marble table. She jerked back and felt her stomach give another violent lurch. The wine too strongly resembled the blood of the fallen warriors, mingled with flecks of tissue and bone.

She drew a deep breath as she willed the nausea to subside, and chided herself; surely the memory of a thousand battles from her mothers blood ran through her veins? She should be far stronger than this! Yet the fear which hung over this place was like a thick fog which crept into one's very flesh and bones.

It was perhaps the pleasure that the had taken in the event that frightened her the most. Vanimórë had fought with a cool efficiency and had dispatched his opponents as if they were trees that needed to be cleared. There had been no joy in his face, and in Elgalad's there had been disgust at his action. But the Emir..._enjoyed pain and blood!_ She was not safe from him, even though Vanimórë had offered himself in her stead. And how could he do such a thing? she wondered.

Taking another glass she filled it and turned to Elgalad, It was difficult now to see him as the lethal warrior whom had so violently dispatched that monstrous man. Her expression softened. There was something in the Elf’s face, the wounded look in his eyes which was resonated with her own pain. If one as inherently gentle as Elgalad was forced to kill to keep his life, what would she be forced to do in order to stay alive long enough to find her husband?

“Drink,” she murmured. She had purposely not poured any wine for herself, for she still felt sick to her stomach and a touch unsteady upon her feet.  
“You fought well,” she sought to find something good to say about this dreadful evening, and she had never before seen Elgalad fight. The blood of generations of warriors that ran in her could appreciate his beauty and grace.

Elgalad smiled a little, although he still looked shaken.  
''I w-was encouraged by the fact I w-was fighting for my l-life. I am sorry thou shouldst h-have had to w-witness it.''

~~~


	37. New Notes In An Ancient Song

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
Tindómion had studied the maps in the palace library before they commenced this journey, and knew where they headed. The region given to them was a jewel in the lap of Arda, and one which both Eru and Glorfindel shielded, yet Tindómion was not sorry to leave it, at least for a while, it and his futile, thrilling struggle with his heartsong that he seemed either unwilling or unable to relinquish. When Glorfindel had announced to the Noldor that he must travel to the south, he had asked if he might come, stating that Elgalad had long been a friend. He knew that Glorfindel read his other reasons, but it was true that he was very fond of Elgalad.

"Very well, come then," Glorfindel said. "I may need thee; Elgalad may need thee, but I will act as thy commander-in-chief and thou wilt obey me, even if thou canst not understand the orders."

Tindómion frowned, but inclined his head. "How could I not trust thee, whatever thine orders?"

Now they had come to a hot region where vast, square-cut mountains buttressed a vivid sky, and the sun bleached the grasses to the color of hay. One slow moving river, sinking in summer drought, ran lazily nearby, and from somewhere came the clank of kine bells. They had seen, in the distance, a tall black man, walking lithe and light, carrying a leaf-bladed spear, his only protection against great cats attacking his herds. Sitting in the shade of a rocky outcrop, they drank and watched the vastness of the land before them, stark and magnificent in the hot light. It was not a cool, green northern beauty beloved of the Elves, but had a grandeur all its own.

  
Tindómion had not known what he had expected when he found his father, was accepted by Fëanor, when they had sailed to their new haven. Some optimistic souls might have dreamed of another Valinor, but one in which they might live under their own laws. It had not taken him long to realize that spacious and wonderful though New Cuiviénen was, in the end it was a land peopled by Noldor and ruled by Fëanor. And to have the Fëanorions – all of them – in one place, was antithetical to peace. Their former lives, and deaths had not changed them one whit.

And there was his personal problem, which had slammed up against a wall of intransigent pride.

~~~

It was altogether strange, Legolas thought, for he, a Sinda prince, whose father had hated the Noldor, to now live in a Noldorin realm. Of course Imladris had been initially populated by Noldoli survivors of Eregion, and he had become accustomed to them over the years. But this was no Imladris, although it was equally as hidden and more protected than the valley had ever been, even under Elrond and Vilya.  
He had watched as the marble villas and the palace rose, the workshops and forges, the kerbed ways laid down, the towers spike pinnacles like white ice into the sky. It was not a city like Minas Tirith; each house was set within tracts of lawn and copse, or alone, as Glorfindel's house was, as if the Noldor needed space and room about them. There were streets where one might buy cloth, jewels, cookware, there were inns and fountained courts where people could gather, bathhouses and training grounds. And the Noldor filled them seeming to bursting with their flashing eyes and quarreling. Yes, quarreling, it seemed that old slights, old feuds were not forgotten, and when he had remarked on this to Glorfindel, his lover had laughed, albeit wryly, and said:  
"It was bound to happen. We are what we are."

Legolas kept apart from many of the Noldor and most especially, the House of Fëanor. Until he had met Glorfindel, the Fëanorions and their Oath had been legend, a shadow which lay on every Elf whose people had suffered in the First Age and which their descendants never forgot. But he had not quite been able to imagine the one whom had created the Silmarilli, slain his kin, spoken the Oath, and died at the hands of Morgoth's Balrogs. Only through knowing Tindómion did he glimpse the glory and sorrow of that House, and Maglor's son had only ever shown him friendship. When he saw Fëanor in the flesh, Legolas suddenly understood that the old tales had not captured him, that nothing could, and he also saw why he had been followed, hated and – loved. Luminous and dangerous as gem-fire, he had looked at Glorfindel with a smile as if it had been only days since they had last met.

Knowing what lay between Glorfindel and Fëanor could not but rouse jealousy in Legolas. This was was Fëanor, after all, most magnificent of all the Elves. Either Glorfindel had read his mind or his face, Legolas did not know, but he had said, "Fëanor can evoke love, yes, and desire even more, but he cannot burn for one alone, and I will not be one of his lovers. I would not even be his sole lover, for it would always be a fight for domination; there would be no true love, just a battle. And he is no fool, he sees deep and far, he knows thou art no whim of mine. We two have to make accord and work here together, and he knows that also."

Legolas did not feel diminished here, but a saying of Samwise Gamgee's came into his mind, that, "Some things are too much altogether."  
He had almost laughed aloud as he thought it, for it was apt for this situation. To dwell here was like walking through intensely bright light with no shade. Glorfindel, even before his elevation, had shone like a golden sun, but that warmed Legolas, it did not harm. Perhaps Glorfindel knew that the intensity here was overwhelming, and that was why he built his house well away from the others. It was not, Legolas knew, that Glorfindel were keeping him out of sight from any embarrassment, but when the Noldor returned to Middle-earth, their arrogance as much as the fact that some had slain their own kin caused hatred and resentment, and such cut two ways. Some of the Exiles despised their kindred in Middle-earth, deeming them savages, and some of the Sindar and most of the Silvan Elves had loathed the Noldorin pride. Admittedly, Legolas had seen little despite, but it was there, among some of them. When had attended great feasts, wearing a circlet of royalty, he felt the stares, and when they rode out hawking or hunting in company, it was usually with the same people, as if Glorfindel chose them carefully. He had not asked why, his time had been too well filled to question it – that thought clenched in his groin, even as it brought a smile to his lips at the way his mind had worded the thought.

The years had bled into one another like ink running into water and Legolas was almost surprised, now that Glorfindel was gone, to think that in the world beyond, five and twenty years had passed. It seemed that time ran differently here, or he had simply not noticed.

He walked with Maglor and Ecthelion down the long gardens to the shore of the inland sea, and watched as the sun set in a pale haze in the west. A cool breeze sprang up, scented with pine and the sweet waters.  
Ecthelion...to Legolas that had presented a greater awkwardness than with than Fëanor, since he visited Glorfindel more often, had been a friend and more. He was beautiful, the Lord of the Fountain, with his ebon hair and pale grey eyes, slayer of Gothmog, whom had killed Fingon and Fëanor before him. But there was a deep wisdom in those eyes, a kindness and a long regret of something which might have been and he – who above all others had the right to resent Legolas – had not allowed his jealousy to sour into hate. His long friendship with Glorfindel survived, and Legolas was glad of that, for it seemed to him Glorfindel, in his power, isolated himself, or became isolated through that power. His most frequents guests, apart from his brothers, were Tindómion and Maglor, together or separately, and in both of them, the peace and wonder of this place did not seem to have wrought healing. They each bore trouble in their hearts.

"They are not alone in that," Glorfindel had said. "But their healing lies within themselves, and both of them know it."

The sound of harp-song rose into the sunset and Legolas turned to see Maglor playing, the wind casting back the black mane of his hair. He imagined the Fëanorion walking for Ages on lonely shores, mad, forever grieving, all those he loved dead. His carven profile was Fëanor's; he was the image of his father.

"Maglor," Ecthelion said with a note of warning in his voice that brought both the black head and the golden around.

A horse and rider were approaching at an easy canter, the stallion's hooves kicking up a fine spray of water. They came to a smooth halt and Curufin said, with a dark smile, "Father asks if – since Glorfindel is absent – if Prince Legolas would join us at feast this night."

"Carry our regrets to father," Maglor replied smoothly. "But we have both been requested to keep Prince Legolas," he pressed on the name. "company here."

"Ah, but does a command from the High King not take precedence over a _request,_ brother?"

"Not when we gave our word, Curufin," Ecthelion said curtly and the other flushed with temper, before looking away. His eyes, slowly tracing over Legolas, still held a shadowy smile.

"Father would be pleased to see _thee,_ Maglor, it seems that being so long alone has given thee a taste for solitude for all thine own family sees of thee. However," he turned his mount gracefully, and this time it was Maglor who flushed, and more deeply. "He anticipated thy refusal, and so _he_ will come to _thee._" With a murmur to the stallion, he galloped away.

Something passed between Maglor and Ecthelion then, and Legolas, watching, did not know what it was. Only they heard Glorfindel's reply from far away: _I half expected this. He will do naught, but stay close._

"Come," Maglor said, with a smile which tried to convey reassurance but held strain. "Let us prepare to greet my father."

~~~

Ýridhren nodded to the slaves, who bent, heaving at the bronze rings that lifted the hatch from the floor. Darkness gaped below and a foul stench of bodily wastes wafted up. A pity the proud son on Imrahil could not remain here until he went irretrievably insane, but there were more refined cruelties to visit on him first.

Two soldiers descended the steps in front of him, and gathering his rich cloak, Ýridhren followed after.

The room, built under the floor of the mansion contained nothing but a length of thick pole in the center. Chains were affixed to this which manacled the prisoner at waist, wrist and ankle. The length of the fetters allowed the man to walk around and around like some chained beast or sit, and that was the extent of his mobility. There was no place to cleanly dispose of human waste, and Ýridhren had heard of some men who ended their days walking a circular track trodden through piled excrement, their bodies caked with filth.  
The thought had appealed to him, to watch the spirit broken and the eyes glaze with madness. Food and water were left within reach each day and it could be seen that Elphir a man of dignity and culture, had attempted to use some to wash himself, but the pit was airless and hot and he needed to drink.

He shielded his eyes, which were still bright under the thick, dirty hair as his captor halted out of reach, enjoying the sight, and he sighed faintly with regret.  
''Bring him up,'' he ordered. ''Put him under the pump. I know your...skills as a warrior, Elphir, and now you will have a chance to prove them.''

For a moment, Elphir was so relieved to be taken from the dreadful cell that he felt nothing but that emotion. He did not fight as soldiers lead him out into the courtyard and a slave worked the pump, bringing blessedly clean water spouting over him. A bowl of soft, scented soap was thrust into his hands and a sea sponge and he feverishly scrubbed and washed, tearing off his clothes and lathering himself until he felt clean again. He dragged his fingers through the matted hair and let the water pour through it. There were many ways to break a person, and some were so very simple: loss of dignity, isolation, darkness could crack the greatest soul.

A slave brought a towel and another carried a clean tunic and sandals. The garments were skimpy compared to the hose, boots and tunics Elphir was accustomed to in Dol Amroth, but seemed to be the normal attire of many in Tanith.  
In the ward, the morning sun felt wonderful on his skin which poor food and worry had limned to bone. Always well-built and tall, now he was all sinew like a lean wolf. He had indeed walked in his prison, determined not to let himself fall into lethargy, but still felt weaker than he ever remembered.

Ýridhren had vanished, but had given orders, for food was brought from the kitchens and a pale, clear wine. Elphir was not stupid enough to refuse it; he needed strength and his wits about him to face whatever would happen next. He clung to the image of his wife's face in his dream, the words in his mind, and prayed.

Sitting on a mounting block, soldiers armed with horn bows and swords about him, he looked up as Ýridhren returned.  
The traitor was not alone. The man with him squat, tough, with a face gnarled and weathered as an old tree-stump. He wore tunic and sandals like Elphir's, but a leather belt decorated with gold and enamel clasped his sturdy waist, and vambraces of etched silver covered his forearms. His nose was flattened, his eyes keen and he carried himself as a soldier might.

''This one,'' Ýridhren said briefly. ''Stand up!'' he ordered the prince, who was not inclined to do so, until a sword pricked him and, eyes furious, he came to his feet.

''Hmm...'' The older man walked around him as if eying a horse, gripped Elphir's bicep, and squeezed.  
''Trained from youth, I reckon, is that true?'' His hand moved to the stomach and thighs but although the Prince pulled back, he realized there was no intimacy in the touch; the man was feeling him as he might feel the legs of a war-horse.

''I can vouch for that.'' Ýridhren's voice was maliciously amused. ''You are out in the clean air, Elphir. One wrong word and I will put you back in your prison and let you rot there until you are mad, and you will live down there a very long time, I assure you.''

A chill shot through the prince. His lips set hard. Curiosity, in any case, was beginning to filter through him. He was out of the pit, he did not intend to go back in again. Whatever he was to do or be, he was out and this gave him opportunities to find his wife. He knew he would become weaker and weaker down there, unable to effect an escape, given only enough food to survive, living in his own excrement, perhaps for years and years...he swallowed, and banished that thought. He would do anything to remain on the outside, where chances might come his way to escape or hear something that could lead him to Anwyn.

''He needs good red meat,'' the man said. ''And exercise. But I will take him on. He will show to advantage in the Games, in the melee. I might even have some coin on him myself.''

''Oh, so might I,'' Ýridhren smiled. ''Very well, Aethen, let us make a deal...''

~~~

Elgalad drank, his revulsion and shock eased by the wine, but his heart burning, knowing where Vanimórë was, imagining what must be happening to him.

_My lord, how long must this go on? _  
He received no words in answer but a mental embrace which calmed him for a moment.

''I h-had to k-kill the Man.'' He looked at Anwyn for a moment in silence. ''It is b-brutal, there is n-no sense to it.''

In the Great Wood the Elves delighted to have competitions but none killed for pleasure, their own or any-one else's. They loathed the orcs and the spiders, but Elgalad could not imagine any Elf finding pleasure in watching another slaughter for sport.

He felt a little weary, more from emotional stress than his injuries, hurts which he knew would heal in time. He sat back carefully, for the bandages were firm about the gouges on his legs and made him feel restricted, and nervous of that sensation. Turning, he rested his fingers below the marks on Anwyn's white neck, frowning, and perhaps something in his touch, of care and innocence, might have eased the sting of it. He rested his head against her brow, as if they sat in the same bleak place of imprisoned despair and spoke into her mind. He had often used this with Vanimórë, and he hoped she could hear, for he was Elf and not Power and his eyes searched her face as he dipped a cloth in water and held it against her throat.

_Canst thou hear me, Anwyn? _He hesitated and continued, unsure of how much she knew, but if anything happened, knowledge might give her an advantage. And then he told her of the day Vanimórë had killed him, in Lindon, beside the ocean, the year she was born. These were things that Men did not know, that gigantic shift of Powers, of the two new gods created in the Bath of Flame. He had not seen it himself, not seen Vanimórë, strengthened by the One, retrieve the Silmaril from the ocean depths and enter Aman, neither had he witnessed Glorfindel come into his glory, or seen those released from the Void. But Vanimórë had told him all, and he related it to her, as the lamps burned their oil and guttered lower, unsure if she would believe him, unsure even of what, if any, comfort it could give her. These were great matters, of Gods and Fate itself, and in so much power, there was rarely any comfort.

_My Lord does not openly use what he is, because he lives among Men, and Men have their own destinies and should not be interfered with, he says. But he...fears he could become another Dark Lord and so he will stand against evil. And there is great evil here, something perhaps older than the Elves, which he cannot see, but wishes to destroy. He believes that only the Emir can bring him close to it. _

Vanimórë, Elgalad knew, was thinking of the greater good, but it did not help when on the path to it; others suffered. And his lord used himself as as harshly as any.

One lamp failed and went out and the shadows fell darker over Anwyn's still face, leaving glints and winks of light from her eyes and the gems in her hair as he finished.

_He would never let thee die, or Prince Elphir, Lady... but there will be hurt. My lord still feels pain, god or no, for his body is of the earth. Pain and shame...and hate...But he tries to draw attention from thee as much as he can. He knows thou art strong. He does not ignore thee, but he has to work in secret to the end: The Great Games, when thou art to be crowned queen. We have to endure until then... _

~~~

Khanad stretched and sat up, looking at the track of the sun. It was still early and he had slept but little after choosing a woman from his seraglio. As was traditional in the palace, she had been taken to her own quarters afterward. Gthar trusted none of them.  
He had, he thought ruefully, had better nights, his mind had not been easy, and although he appreciated warrior skills, was trained in them himself, he had little taste for the amount of blood spilled the last evening. He had been more than impressed by the Elves however – as had his father.

A slave carried in a tray of chilled juice. He swung his legs over the couch and when it had been tasted, drank it. It was freshly pressed red grape, and in the code devised between he and Gthar this meant: _Ride out, we need to speak urgently. _

~~~

Jumping from his saddle, Khanad felt down the leg and fetlock of his mount and lifted the hoof as if checking for a stone. He murmured into the glossy hide,''So?''

Gthar, angling his own horse to hide his face from any observers, dismounted and said, ''I think we know where the Northlander is, sire. One of the bath-boys at Aethen's school reported a man taken there this morning. Very tall, dark haired, carries himself like a lord, white skinned and grey eyed.''

''He is at a Fighters School? Where has he been until now?'' Khanad wondered.

" He came with Aethen himself; you know how hard it s to get into his school. Either he was paid well, or he judges the Northman to be worth it. Some-one will have seen where Aethen brought him. We should know by noon."

''So, he is to be in the Games also?'' The prince let the hoof drop and smoothed his mount's flank before gathering the reins.  
''Something is happening in this city, old friend and I cannot put my finger on any of it !''

''If I may suggest...''

''I will not leave Tanith, I will not run away, '' Khanad hissed as he swung into the saddle.

_Neither would your mother, and she is long dead on the Isle. _Gthar bowed deeply, loving his prince and fearing for him with the fear like ice in his soul.

  
~~~

Fëanor strode into the room where Fingolfin was speaking quietly with his eldest son and slammed his hands down on the great table of polished serpentine, scattering vellum.

'' Wilt thou follow me again, my beautiful brother?'' he asked.

Fingolfin rose. ''What in the Hells is in thy mind now?'' he demanded.

''I want to see what lies beyond this realm." Fëanor's eyes burned like light.

''There are realms of men beyond, uncle,'' Fingon spoke up. ''Thou didst not ever meet them. It is not the same now, as it was when we leaguered the Hells of Iron, and the first Mortal's came and were our allies. They were fewer then, and took us as their lords and loved us. It changed even when my son was High King. The Eldar and Men should not mingle, thou wouldst see why if thou didst ever know them. And I loved them, their courage, their valor, their brief and bright lives, but we knew even then that they should live apart from us.''

Fingolfin nodded. ''They are like us, yet not, they seek for something Middle-earth can never give them. We have heard of Atalantë, and why it fell. Men do not understand why they age and die, and even among the most wise it causes in the end, envy and bitterness. Few are the Men who have accepted their fate as the early Kings of Númenor did, relinquishing their lives at the end.''

''Their fate is different, perhaps greater than even the Eldar know,'' Fingon murmured. ''There may be love betwixt us, but never true understanding. It is said they fell under Morgoth's shadow, long long ago, fell from what they were meant to be.''

Fëanor turned and strode to the long balcony.  
''Endor is vaster than we knew and the One did not create Elves and Men on a whim. There is room for both. We could enrich both our world and theirs. We should go forth, not hide as if we were some guilty secret!''

Fingolfin acquitted his half brother of boredom, a word unknown in Quenya or Sindarin, but culled from the Edain. Elves had a different mental attitude to the passing of time. It might be expected that, with their lifespans, they would experience it, but this was not so. Fingolfin had even tried to imagine such a sensation and could only equate it with the restlessness of the years in Valinor, before his father's death. No, Fëanor was not suffering boredom, only the ambition which ran in all Noldorin veins. In fact, he desired to do as the One had intended, to beautify Arda, not one part of it, but all, as the Elves, originally had been created to do, to be of the world, healing it, glorying it in, gilding it.

''We have only just begun our new life,'' he protested.

''And it is good. It is as it was meant to be, but there is more. Are Men masters of Arda then?''

''So it was doomed, it is said.'' His half brother glanced at Fingon.

Fëanor laughed. ''Who said? Oh, the Valar! And thou art familiar with doom, as I am. There is no fate which may not be challenged.'' He swung around. ''What sayest thou?''

''We should discuss this with Glorfindel when he returns,'' Fingolfin advised.

''Glorfindel is our Vala.'' Fëanor gave him a glittering smile. ''He knows us. I wish to see this...world of Men. A little of it, anyway. Tomorrow, ride with me. Tonight...'' His smile became wicked. "Tonight, Legolas plays host to me." ~


	38. To Burn Alone In The Shadows

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

Enoch had come with two guards to escort Vanimórë from the Emir's chambers almost as soon as the visitation had gone. His demeanor was subtly different now.

_He watched and he fears..._

In fact Enoch feared also the subtle power-shift which had occurred this night. He had known for many years that _She_ visited his master after the Black Ship had sailed, but he had never known another to witness what happened. That the Elf had remained and was still alive indicated that he was now favored by both Taraluk and the one he called, euphemistically, ''the Lady of the Isle.'' He therefore was uncertain of how to treat Vanimórë, and was silent as he lead him down the hallway to his rooms.

Vanimórë sank into the bath and closed his eyes. He thought he had seen every manifestation of evil on Arda. It was now very apparent that he had not. Rubbing himself hard with soap, he considered Glorfindel's words of that being for which the Elves had many names: _Gwerlum, Wirilómë, Ungwë Lianti, _ the Great Spider who Enmeshes. Ungoliant, whose child Shelob had long guarded Cirith Ungol, the pass above Minas Morgul. At times Vanimórë had been ordered to take prisoners to Torech Ungol, and through what he witnessed the Dark Lord would obtain a black amusement. He remembered the huge, bloated creature; the spiders which had long troubled Mirkwood were of Ungoliant's brood, but none, it was said, could even approach the _Thing _ which had drank up the Light of the Trees.

He rose from the bath and dried himself swiftly, feeling the cold race of his blood.

_It cannot be...Ungoliant desired Light, and took the form of a spider; this was a woman, and she feeds on human flesh. _

He drank wine, hardly tasting it, even his internal hurts and savage loathing sublimated to his thoughts.

_No wonder the people of this city are so afraid, I looked in her eyes and saw...Nothing.... felt...Nothing but that hunger.... the Emir sends her food and she gives him long life....so why did she let me live? It did not seem as if she knew I had Power..., but to her, I would be more food, surely? No...Taraluk wants an Empire, but so does she. She needs more tribute, more to feast on ! And they will use me to give them both what they desire. _

Stepping to the balcony Vanimórë curled his hands around the carved stone and pressed his brow against its coolness.

_It does not matter what She is. She must be faced, here. _ He lifted his face and it was grim, hard as the stone under his fingers.  
_I ** will ** look into that Darkness! I swear it! _

Gently as a caress over a sleeper's face he reached out to Elgalad, feeling him wakeful, the tumult of his emotions: rage, grief, horror, the pain of his wounds. He felt a need to cleanse himself of Taraluk's contagion by holding Elgalad in his arms, to bury his face in the silken hair, but such a caress could so easily become more; desire ran like blood through him. Elgalad would feel so pure, so _clean..._

There was a snap as his hands clenched and a curl of lacy stone broke off. He breathed hard, cast the shard away and poured more wine.

_Glorfindel – we have to do this.... _ He reached out, sensed that sun-storm pulse and another mind, fierce and fiery, _ Tindómion._ Well, Tindómion could look after himself. And might have to.  
_Of course. It is for Elgalad, in case we..._  
He had kept Elgalad with him because he knew he could ultimately protect him from anything. Or so he had thought. Seeing that ..._thing_ had shocked him. All he knew was that even if she were Night itself, he would face her and devour her Darkness until she was nothing but a hissing on the empty winds of Time.

Crossing to the bed, he lay down, pillowing his head on his arms.

_Meluion. _

_Yes? _

The relief and love in that simple response was overwhelming. Even isolated in his fierce thoughts, Vanimórë felt a sense of gratitude for that love. A smile curve his lips.

_Glorfindel comes to Tanith, with Tindómion. _

  
_They are coming? Why? They will not end like this, will they? Like us? _

_ Meluion, some things I cannot tell thee yet. But all will be well, I swear it._ His mind-tone gentled. _Rest now. Thou wilt not be disturbed this night. _

_ And thou? _ Elgalad was all yearning, all love. _ If Anywn is safe, let me come to thee ! _

_I can feel thy love, and it does give me comfort, Meluion. _  
As if Elgalad were beside him, Vanimórë, reached out an hand, traced it through air, down silken hair, over cheekbone and jaw and throat, feeling the flutter of the pulse under the skin. He groaned and let fall his hand and buried his face in the pillows.

_Yes. _

_ I know, I know. And I was proud of thee, this evening, so very proud. Now rest, love. Heal. I will come to thee early. _

He would have kissed away the disappointment had he been with Elgalad. As it was, he withdrew his mind with a last, loving touch and curled up in sudden pain. Raging desire and love melded together and roared like furnace which fed only on itself and could never burn out.

~~~

They ran silently, Glorfindel ahead, his hair a pale banner under the moon.  
_We will enter the city disguised of course, Vanimórë. Where should we stay?_

_ The House of the Palms. Elgalad and I lodged there, but remember, no place in Tanith is free of spies, keep thy faces covered._

Glorfindel sent an affirmative as he picked up speed.

~~~

Vanimórë watched the sky lighten behind the hills east of the city as thoughts ran between he and Glorfindel like lightning strikes.  
_ A display of power will alert the being on the isle, we have to be cautious up until the end...I saw her...like darkness, and death, luscious and rotten and repellent. She gives Taraluk long life and appetites, in return for the tribute he sends. She is old..._  
He thrust his hands through his loose hair, feeling Glorfindel's intensity. _ She has survived a very long time, she will flee if she believes a Vala hunts her. I must travel to the isle, but as a victim, not as Vala... _

_ I understand. And the only way I can be there is **not** to be. _

The slant of low sun shimmered in Vanimórë's eyes.  
_ I know, I do not see another way. I wish I did. Be very careful, I cannot stress that enough. The Emir knows old tales of the Eldar, he hates and envies as many do. It affords him great delight to have me kneel before him, to use me...Just break me a way into that darkness and I will gorge myself on it until there is nothing left! _

He walked to the door and flung it open, meeting the crossing of spears with the look of an emperor.

''I go to see my companion,'' he said, as if it could not admit of dispute. ''I will see how his wounds are this morning.''

Word of the night had filtered down, he thought, as he was silently lead along the hallway.

~~~

As they ran, the leagues flowing under their feet, Glorfindel thought of Maglor's words to his son, before they departed. A few of them had been gathered in a private chamber.

''I wish thou wouldst reconsider, Istelion.''

''Glorfindel is my friend, and so is Elgalad, father.''

''I wouldst not have thee within a thousand leagues of Gorthaurion!'' The words had been passionate, explosive, and Tindómion had paused in closing his pack.

''I cannot bring myself to accept that he saved my life, saved me from the Void." Maglor went on. "He is dangerous, not because of what he is, but because he can make one _forget_ what he is! And he laughed at me, in Barad-dûr laughed at my... capitulation, because I could not fight what I felt."

Tindómion had laid a hand on his father's shoulder. "I do not think he laughed _at_ thee, _adar._ Thou canst not believe he is truly evil?"

"He can be anything he wishes,'' Maglor had murmured and embraced his son hard. "Keep safe, I will not lose thee now."

_ Thou wilt not lose him, Maglor, _ Glorfindel thought. _I vow it._ ~

  
~~~


	39. 'All Spins...'

 

(Written by Anwyn)

~ Anwyn wrapped her arms about herself. She was cold despite the warmth of the night and even in the presence of Elgalad she felt strangely wary, although for him rather than of him.

Slowly the vivid imagery of the death-match and it's immediate aftermath released it's grasp on her mind, and she could relax, if only a little. Elgalad’s presence was calming and she could not help but bask in it.

She understood why Elgalad had fought, why he had killed. He had had no choice, but that the match had been forced on him for the Emir's _amusement_ disgusted her. She could only nod her acknowledgment of his soft words, unable, for the moment, to speak.

She did not flinch from him as he gently touched the wound on her neck, for his closeness did not alarm or degrade her, and something rose within her which she sharply quelled. It had been too long, Anwyn thought ruefully since she had known a touch that did not fill her with disgust or cause her to flinch away like a beaten dog.

Her neck throbbed, and as Elgalad's gentle fingers covered the mark, a great lump pushed up in her throat even as she felt the fanning of warmth across her flesh.

When Elgalad spoke into her mind she did not react, and she listened as her lashes lowered as she focused on his words. It was imperative that the hidden spies see nothing but two people sitting in silence.

There was certainly darkness here; she felt it even if she did not understand it. Even she felt heavy, her own sorrows lodging themselves like a stone in her breast. There seemed so much that lay frustratingly beyond her grasp!  
She could not feel self-pity, that road would lead to despair, and Anwyn was not a woman to easily embrace that. There were others whose lives hung on the whim of the Emir, probably all that lived in Tanith. Yet the threat of marriage loomed over her. She would _not_ accept such a union, she would never allow herself to become the Emir’s wife! Each moment both in and beyond these rooms she watched for any way of escape. And that brought another thought into her mind. She did not think many places could hold an Elf if they desired to escape. Why were they still here?

As Elgalad continued, she silenced herself and listened. Perhaps those years were as an eyeblink to the Elves, but it brought to her mind her very earliest memories: of Rohan, of running and hiding from the man whom she had known as her father and delighting when he had found her once more.

Anwyn trusted Elgalad. He had never given her reason to doubt him, though now her eyes widened on him and she stared.

_Vanimórë **killed him?** _

She studied Elgalad more closely, half-expecting to see a scar on his neck, but there was nothing, no mark to testify to the truth of his story. Nevertheless, why would he lie? And it was impossible to believe he could lie about such a thing!

Furiously she wished that they were not constantly spied upon, for she could not speak aloud, and her thoughts were a wild storm of disbelief and shock. She could not beat them down enough to form silent words and, as questions tore at her throat, she bit her lip. She understood that Elgalad and Vanimórë trusted her enough to reveal this and her strong sense of honor bound her not to betray them.

How many times had she called upon powers who remained faceless and silent? The beliefs which had brought her comfort as a child, that she was guarded by beings beyond sight and understanding, were always with her. She did not speak of them, but they were part of her, and she carried her faith as naturally as a seasoned warrior wears his armor.

Perhaps hours crept by or merely short moments as Anwyn sat, silently taking in all she had been told. The light grey eyes grew distant as she sought to comprehend it, though this required an act of faith. Well, did she not have faith? Surely, or she would have long since have been stricken by hopelessness.

Were her life to be ended tomorrow, and she was summoned to the great halls of her forefathers Anwyn would look back upon her life and feel contentment. She had in many ways been blessed, carried through those times of troubled waters. Even now...she was here, Elphir was here somewhere, and Elgalad and Vanimórë. There was a pattern, even if she could not see the design clearly yet.

Vanimórë was bold, to hide himself so completely in the open, to possess such unimaginable power and still permit another to use his body. Anwyn felt her own shudder at the memory of the Emir's violent, agonizing rape. Yet it was oddly comforting that Vanimórë apparently holding such powers, would endure such usage, and for the sake of others.

She straightened. What she had learned would not take her from this place, nor would it bring her into the arms of Elphir, but it had given her knowledge, a weapon against the darkness and clawing despair that threatened at times to consume her. It gave her _hope_ which was something rare in this place. Rare and very precious.

Anwyn sat a little taller, her head held just a touch higher. The icy hand of helplessness and doubt which held her dropped away and her gaze was clear, resolute.

_I shall endure this_

  
~~~

  
Aethen's new acquisition had emerged from the baths clean, dressed in the same short tunic and sandals, and the man's trained eye took in the way he moved. Released from his chains, his stride was longer and he carried himself with grace. Aethen did not fear for himself, though the man's anger was palpable, for there were four guards to escort him, all of whom carried weapons. He did not believe, in any event, that the man would attack him. His eyes were thoughtful as they took in the sights around him; he might be contemplating escape, but he would not attempt it yet, Aethen judged.

Elphir had summed up his escort with an internal nod of appraisal, for if he could take down one of the soldiers, the others would be on him. _No, not yet._ He was not at his full strength, but he would be, and would not throw this gift (and it was a gift, to be out of that stinking pit.) away so swiftly. he needed time to think and to grow strong again.

There had been a time in that hole, that he feared he was losing his mind. He had imagined he heard the blackness whispering. At times he thought he heard the voice of his wife, and fought against the bounds that held him. But in his heart knew he was truly alone and that such thing were birthed of fear and loneliness.

He was determined to use this unexpected freedom to his advantage and while he walked, tried to think of all he had learned and heard from sailors of the south of the Harad. He heard Aethen speaking of matches being held for warriors, to meet each other in contests of skill and strength. This was not altogether strange to him, for the debased Men of Númenor had practiced such things.

Elphir would not deceive himself. Whatever his lineage, here, here he was little better than a slave and at the mercy of this man, Aethen who now lead him through the great house. There was an uncluttered elegance to the mansion that Elphir had come to associate with the richer dwellings of the south. What he did not yet know was that this was no ordinary mansion, but a training school. Warriors trained here and paid for that privilege, and Aethen had ever prided himself on the quality of those he entered into the Games. Already he believed that this newest addition to his stable would be well worth the high price he had paid.

Elphir found himself lead out into a ring composed of freshly raked sand about which an array of weapons were stacked. His eyes examined them, but he made no move to touch one.

“This night you shall rest,” Aethen said, and Elphir glanced at him, then looked up at the darkening sky. It had been far too long since the stars, and these were strange ones.

Aethen had every intention to press this one hard in order to have him in fighting shape for the games, but he was not a cruel man. He was experienced enough to know the most effective training regimen, which in his school incorporated good food and rest. Those that were trained to be as mad dogs would indeed fight strongly for a time, but would soon tire. It was not Aethen's way, and for years his school had been famed for producing excellent death-warriors. This tall man was an excellent buy, whom already had the advantage of having been trained in weapons; nobility most likely, from the north by the color of his skin, although Aethen did not concern himself with that. Many outland slaves came to Tanith, and none speculated on their origins. ~  


~~~


	40. '...Around The Games.'

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

Elgalad rose as Vanimórë entered the chamber. His eyes met the purple ones, searching for the events of the night as if they might be branded there. But any marks were hidden by the breeches and vest he wore, and his face was impassive. He smiled reassurance.

''My Lady,'' he bowed to Anwyn as, behind him, slaves entered with juices, flat bread, fruit and bowls of fragrant cheese. A taster tried a little of everything, before departing and the healer whom had tended Elgalad's wounds the night before, lingered to unwrap the dressings on his legs and arm and examine them.  
The man was startled, for the healing seemed oddly rapid. There was no redness save which was normal and no festering, no angry flesh. This was unusual but Doralis, as had been well known, never used poison, relying proudly on brute strength to kill.  
Vanimórë had been glad of that, for although not all poisons affected Elves to the same degree as Mortals, there were some which were lethal, and he did not know this far southern land and what venom the people might use.

''You may leave your legs free, since they show very clean and swift healing. I will leave you an ointment and dressings if they begin to weep.'' The man spoke to Elgalad and then, sidelong, glanced at the other, the one whom, it was whispered, was not to be crossed, since he was _ highly _ favored by the Emir.  
If he had been with the Most High last night, he showed no sign of hurt, and Bencladion had seen many youths and women be helped, bleeding, (and worse) from those chambers.  
Perhaps Elves did not feel pain at all, he thought, for all they seemed made, in most ways, like Men.

Vanimórë nodded agreement, as the gash on Elgalad's arm was dressed again.

''Perhaps tomorrow, this one may come off, but put no strain on it lest it open.'' The healer's assistant gathered his medicament's and both left. Save for the silent, hidden observers, they were alone in the room.

_ Thou didst tell her, then? _ Vanimórë reached out a hand to smooth his fingers down the silver fall of hair. Elgalad drew closer and nodded.

_ Was I wrong, lord? _

_ No. Ignorance is always dangerous, and in this place, it could be fatal. Knowing everything might aid her, in some way. _

He said nothing about what he had witnessed in Taraluk's inner chambers. There was nothing either could gain from knowing it, and even Vanimórë felt that his mind sought to slide away from it. But it was too late for that, he had looked into the eyes of Night, and felt...  
_....felt as if he were entombed alive, with no air to breathe, dead earth forced into his mouth, smothering, choking as the blackness pushed into each vein like contagion, taking him in until he too was... nothing but part of the Darkness, which crouched beyond the light of the world ever waiting, patient and eternal.... _

His fingers spread on Elgalad's back, seeing the concern and love in the great grey eyes. He murmured, ''Pour us some juice, Meluion,'' and turned his head to Anwyn.

_ Arda was never meant to be a dwelling place for Powers, Lady. _ He said into her mind._ I feel thy confusion. But the All Father created the world for his Children. The ancient wars of the Shaping of Arda, between the Valar and Melkor destroyed it, remade it, the War of Wrath sank Beleriand beneath the Great Sea. Glorfindel and I – we have lived long without having access to powers. I inherited some from my sire, even as Lúthien Tinúviel inherited some from her mother, Melian the Maia, but such was my hatred for he who engendered me that I chose not to use them. Glorfindel is a warrior, who died and was reborn.  
For both of us using whatever powers the One has given us is, or should be, a last resort. This world is for thee Anwyn, for Elphir, for Men.  
Perhaps we were chosen because we were ** not ** born Ainur. To cleanse this city, tear it down, to raise the seas against it would be so easy; to make of Tanith a charnel-house of bones and broken potsherds. But the evil which dwells on yonder isle is ancient, older then Man, older then the Elves. It is a survivor, cunning, hungry. Any show of great power will surely alert it and it will flee, covering itself in darkness and go elsewhither. My power cannot penetrate the Night that it is, which tells me that it is something far older than I am. I have knelt as a slave before Morgoth in Angband, and yet this is beyond my ken.  
There may be only one way: to face it in its den, challenge it before it can vanish. When it is met and bested – and it will be – so falls the Emir. Then perhaps Tanith can break from the caul of fear which has surrounded it for so long. _

And here, he thought, I can begin, an Empire indeed, but not Taraluk's...** mine.**

_ The Great Games. All will be resolved then, Anywn. As for Elphir, he was in despair, but I feel now that he has put on determination and hope like armor. Both of thee have great inner strength, Lady. He lives and thou wilt see him again. _

His words were meant for the both of them and as he spoke, Elgalad pressed himself close. He had not spoken to Anwyn of his unrequited desire for Vanimórë, only of his love, which was part of the tale. It was love which moved him to slip his arms about the hard waist, for no matter how expressionless that beautiful face, Vanimórë had been hurt in soul and body last night.

_ This is what the damned Emir dreams. _ Vanimórë continued, as he embraced Elgalad. _ Immortality, as did Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor. An Empire. **She** has fostered this, for that would mean more tribute sent to her. That is why, Lady, there are no criminals in Tanith, no sign of unrest, few beggars, why all seems so... clean, so well-ordered. They are sent to the Isle, sent as food for that...being. _ He felt Elgalad shudder, the great eyes were fast on him.

_ What happens to them? _ His mind voice was a whisper.

Vanimórë thought of the voracity of the woman's appetite in bedding Taraluk, how she had raked long nails across his own bare flesh and licked off the blood with the expression of a wine-connoisseur tasting the finest vintage.

_ I imagine, _ he said to both Elgalad and Anwyn._ They are devoured. I feel enormous hunger from her. _

_ Blessed Eru ! _ Elgalad was horrified, a wolf's-paw of fear brushed over his skin and he thought, without knowing why, of the great spiders of his beloved Lasgalen and how they ate the prey that they caught...

_ She infects the Emir with some of her own hungers, and holds back the years from him. Before we came, Taraluk had placed Khanad as commander of his army. The Prince is well trained and skilled, respected by the soldiers, but he is young and untried. And then **I** came, an Elf, so it seemed, one who had lived thousands of years. In me, Taraluk sees his new General who can carry the banner of Tanith in conquest. In Anwyn, he sees a woman of high blood who will produce children for him to be used as political game pieces to create stronger ties and alliances. This means that the Khanad's position is vulnerable. And he knows that. But thou canst trust him Anwyn, as much as any in this place. he will not move against thee, though common sense – and Gthar – tells him that both you and I are his death-warrant._

Taraluk must be persuaded to keep thee as a fine brood- mare, Anwyn, to be given the best and not over-ridden nor hurt, so that thy body will easily and quickly grow children. Both Khanad last night, and I, have tried to avert the Emir's attention from thee.  
I know how it feels Anwyn. I know what pleasure some get in forcing themselves into an unwilling body. I would save thee that. But I know not if I can keep him off thee forever, thou also must impress upon him what courtesies are due to a lady of Númenorean blood. He paused. _ Thou dost remind me of Miriel, wife of Ar-Pharazôn, taken by force and wed to a tyrant. She was courageous, though she had no weapons with which to fight. She was the only fair thing I saw in Armenelos, and I had no power to aid her. But her fate will not be thine, I promise thee. I think Taraluk can get no children on any woman, his use of narcotics, and his true age have dried his seed. Any child thou might bear him, even wert thou to be his queen and wife, in truth, would not be his. And Enoch and Nothtar would know it. Keep that very close to thee. To say it aloud would be treason.  
All spins around the Games. And I **will ** win. All my life I have been a warrior. I know how to kill. _  
The words were emotionless. He did know how to kill, how to lead armies to war, but he saw it as a job, even as a man clearing the night-soil from a city streets saw that as a job. It was not edifying, it simply had to be done.

''And now,'' he said aloud, but softly. ''let us eat. And then I must go.''

''Where d-dost thou g-go?'' Elgalad asked with anxiety.

''To find the closest training ground. The palace guard must have one,'' Vanimórë replied. ''I am a Death-fighter, Meluion. Not simply a...plaything.''

''B-But thou art h-hurt.'' As the black brows rose, Elgalad flushed. ''Thou wilt not show it, b-but I know thou art. I f-feel it.'' Elgalad thought of the men who had captured him in Rhovannion, who had beaten him and would have raped him had Vanimórë and Maglor not rescued him. They too, had been touched by unwholesome darkness.

The purple eyes softened. Gently, Vanimórë touched the curve of Elgalad's cheek, and drew the pale head against his.  
''I am used to this, Meluion,'' he murmured. ''All bodies are meant to feel pain and it is also natural for them to heal. Sometimes, the wound is too great, of course, but _ I _ will heal.''

How many times had he done this? Raped, tortured, given a brief respite and then sent out again to war, to train, on missions, while blood still marked his breeches, his tunic, his wrists, and each movement aggravated his wounds? He healed quickly, not instantly, no-one who wore a physical form did, Man, Elf, even Vala – Morgoth had been wounded by Fingolfin and limped ever after.

''No-one sh-should be used t-to it !'' Elgalad protested.

''Perhaps the One chose me for this, lead me here, because I _ am _ accustomed. At least he can be sure I will not give up and walk away.'' Vanimórë's voice was wry. ''The Emir may sleep till noon, he had an...eventful night.''  
He was not referring to himself but to the abhorrent, ravenous visitation. ''And I will be back by then.'' He looked at Anwyn, and smiled, elusive, with his eyes, his words for her alone.

_ I feel certain that thy husband will give thee great joy and pleasure, Lady, to ease the memories. I know thou dost feel shame, all who are abused do, but the shame is Taraluk's not thine. But if thou dost wish to forget **before ** that time comes, I couldst show thee, as was shown to me, that even in darkness, the embers can still burn brightly._ He glanced at Elgalad. _ And so could he, and far more gently. _

He bowed and went to the door. Elgalad heard him ask the guards to conduct him to a place where he might train, and then the doors were closed and locked again. A bird piped in the orange trees in the garden below, sleepy and muted, for the heat was increasing daily, toward Midsummer and the Games...

~~~

''You must be mistaken,'' Khanad mouthed behind his fan. ''Not all the gold in Tanith could buy that piece of information.''

''No-one has offered it,'' Gthar returned in the same fashion. ''But the dark Elf did not return to his chambers last night, and this morning, he gives orders as if he were you, and Enoch is silent and troubled and meets with Nothtar.''

And they knew, had all come to know, _ without _ knowing, that after the Black Ship sailed the Emir shut himself away in his innermost chambers and emerged as a man who had violently sported all night, and yet was renewed.  
No witness ever spoke of it but rumor said that 'the Lady of the Isle' graced Taraluk with her presence and laid on him spells of youth. Only Nothtar and Enoch had ever seen this, others were long dead or their tongues removed and their fingers broken so that they might not write nor speak.  
But the Elf had remained and come forth unharmed and this meant a very great change.

''He is training, my lord, in the Guards barracks.'' Gthar answered the unspoken question.

Wearing light half-armor Khanad strolled down to the sand-floored training area as if he were simply taking a little practice himself. There were few there, and those who were had halted to watch the black-clad, black- haired Elf as he moved.

He was using a training 'sword-tree' pulled by slaves so that it rotated. The great inner pillar of wood had been affixed with swords, spikes, maces and chains, and the warrior using it must avoid each weapon by ducking, jumping and rolling.  
Soldiers in training used a less dangerous device of wooden spokes, but most of the Fighters Schools had this lethal instrument, and skilled warriors took pride in increasing the speed at which it was rotated, in meeting the whirling weapons with their own. Khanad used it himself at times and always ended perspiring, heart racing, sometimes cut and often bruised. It did not allow for mistakes.

The tree was not, at the moment, moving very fast, not enough to whip the maces and chains out to their full length, but still there was something indolent in the way that the Dark Elf danced around it, each move bringing into play one of the slender scimitars he bore. There was a rhythm to it, almost a drum-beat to the _crack, crack, crack _ of the weapons meeting the embedded swords and spikes, then he would spin with a dancer's grace out of the way of the whirling weapons.

He called something to the slaves, who increased the speed of the rotation, spun on the ball of his foot, and continued the movement. At any moment, Khanad expected the 'tree' to come to an abrupt halt, blood to spray, see the Elf speared, crushed or sliced, as he had seen happen to other over-confident fighters. But there was a now almost continuous ringing sound as the blades connected and disengaged, and the tall figure leaped, whirled, somersaulted, bounced down on one knee to come up. He became a blur of black and steel which Khanad's eyes could not follow

''Slow.'' The command was crisp, unhurried, and the spinning gradually wound down. Vanimórë sheathed his scimitars, strolled across to Khanad, and bowed.

''_You_ are a dangerous bastard,'' Gthar said through his teeth.

The sleek brows rose whimsically and Vanimórë extended an arm down which a thin cut was traced, weeping crimson.  
''Oh, I _ can _ be hurt, but that was just clumsy.'' His smile was very white and mocking.

''He is right, you _ are _ dangerous. No-one can do that!'' Khanad hissed.

''Many Elves can, probably many Men. I have known some. Thou couldst thyself. it is all a matter of practice and training. I must not get used to lounging on thy father's couch, must I?''

Khanad's throat dried. He called to a slave and ordered wine. The sun was almost directly over the city now and yet there was no perspiration on the Elf's white brow. Into the goblet, the prince said, reluctantly: ''I cannot trust thee. Especially not now. But we have, we believe, traced the northern man.''

A nod was vouchsafed, as if this information were expected.

''He will enter the games, he is at a fighter school in the east of the city.''

_ I do not think that information need go further._

The prince was always shocked at that ringing, clear voice in his mind, but he was adept at concealing his emotions. His face betrayed nothing.

_ Many things will happen at the Games. Take heart, Khanad. The time of thy bondage to a madman is almost over.~ _

~~~


	41. The Wheel...

 

(Written by Anwyn)

~ Anwyn inclined her head in greeting, though it seemed strange now that Vanimórë should bow to her. Her manner was outwardly natural and unchanged as she drew back allowing the healer to tend Elgalad. She was surprised that the deep wounds had already neatly knit themselves closed and would soon be healed completely. But why should anything surprise her now? she wondered wryly.

As the doors closed once more, she clasped her hands and shifted uncertainly as silence fell. Nothing had truly changed, merely her own understanding, but she wondered why she had not guessed that something momentous was afoot. It was an oddly heavy burden to bear, imagining oneself in a tale that might have come from the distant past. She thought of the Great Tales she had read in Imrahil's library, but realized that there would be no written record of what Elgalad had recounted to her, no scribe to record it. As for Tanith, she had never even heard of the city before coming here. She thought Vanimórë's words; how easy it would be to destroy it with power, and admitted that a part of her would rejoice to see fire burn out whatever it was that festered at its heart. But she also recognized that there were innocent souls here, as entrapped and tangled as she.

The isle..._darkness?_ Fear and confusion touched her. What was it, that even Vanimórë could not see into it? When Anwyn had been born, It was into lands from which the shadow had been driven out and even now, those years were fading to a memory. For Anwyn, such evil had only been tales to trouble the mind on a dark winter night, nothing more. To imagine an evil that rested itself in the shadows of the Emir's rule would explain much, she thought. She loathed him and the terrified, poisonous court, could not begin to imagine the fear of those who had endured this all their lives.

The Great Games loomed over her like a darkening storm cloud. She had heard people speaking of them, but what chilled her more was were Vanimórë's words on the human cargo sent to the isle to be…consumed? Sickness twisted her gut at the mere thought of such a thing. Taraluk’s cruelty was great, and she considered him insane, but such a tribute of his own people was monstrous! Her assessment of him as a a madman seemed mild in retrospect, and her hand gripped the arm of a chair to steady herself. Concerned with other matters, she had not given much thought to Prince Khanad, yet he also had a part to play in this, it seemed, and he had shown her kindness, if not earned her trust. If he possessed even the smallest shred of the cruelty of his father, he would see her disposed of, she thought, but she had been aware of the efforts of both Khanad and Vanimórë to draw the interests of the Emir away from her. And she was grateful for it.  
One thing which troubled her was that Taraluk claimed to know more about her heritage and birth than she herself. If he wished to believe her a relict of Númenor whom must be well-treated then it would perhaps keep him from her, at least until the Games.

A small crease touched her smooth brow and for a moment she retreated within herself, carefully storing away all that she had been told. All knowledge could be a weapon here, this she understood.

Elgalad’s exclamation of concern for his lords hurt brought her attention outward again and she felt a sharp guilt. Vanimórë had indeed managed to draw the Emir's attention from her by giving his own body!

_ If only Taraluk knew what he touched!_ she thought. The madman might consider himself godlike, but he had raped an actual God, as far as she understood it. She could scarcely comprehend why Vanimórë would allow himself to be used in such a way, but she did understand his desire to protect others, even though she had no claim upon him.  
The look of pain in Elgalad’s features would have softened most hearts and Anwyn was moved. It seemed ingrained in the fair Elf's nature to bring comfort to those around him, and by the expression in Vanimórë's eyes, Elgalad did indeed give comfort.

As Vanimórë departed, Anwyn sunk down heavily into the cushions feeling as though a great weight had been set upon her shoulders. Her eyes came to rest on on Elgalad and she realized how deeply he loved his lord, it was in each gesture and not in his alone, for it was clear that Vanimórë equally cared for Elgalad. It brought a smile to her lips. Tanith was a city laced with so much violence, love was precious and she clasped her own for Elphir close to her heart. Perhaps love shone the brighter in such darkness as Tanith was steeped in.

~~~  



	42. ...Begins To Turn

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

~ ''If you went to _him_ with that, no matter what his plans for the Elves, that unchancy bastard would be the first on the next ship.'' Gthar whispered as Vanimórë turned and walked away. He strode as if he were untouched, as if he had not been used the previous night, but that was impossible, it was known how the Emir treated those brought to his couch.

''What if it is true?'' Khanad mused, as he loosened his muscles for his own bout of training.

''And there is the danger, Lord. You _ wish _ to believe him. What use would he have for you?''

''Well _I_ am not insane.'' The last word was hardly audible, and Khanad's lips did not shape it, although few would be able to lip-read what he said as he initiated his strikes. ''And such a thing has never happened, the woman, the Elves...and they know one another. Not only Vanimórë would go down, but the others with him.''

''Leaving your position much more secure,'' Gthar hissed.

''Yes, until my father loses his tenuous grip on sanity, or is sour with wine or poppy, and orders my death on a whim.''

Gthar could say nothing to that. It was too accurate, it was what he had dreaded before the damned Elves and the woman had ever come here. It would not be rational, but then Taraluk had not been that in many years.

_ But what if it is true, what if he could bring him down, free us from this tyranny of fear? _ wondered Khanad. He had never considered it before, he had grown up with things as they were; the only way of ensuring his own safety had been to prove himself of use to his father. Gthar had aided him in that by encouraging him to become skilled in swordplay, shown him how to command respect of the army, but now two had walked in and seemed about to take over all that Khanad had: position, power, influence – his very life.

''Let us pay a visit to Aethen's,'' he decided.

  
~~~

  
After training, the palace guards made use of the communal baths where slaves would wash and massage them. The few men who were here had been relaxing for some time; cups of wine stood near at hand as they reclined on couches. They were Royal Guards, after all, and had privileges, and most had been on night duty. It had been _that_ night, and no man there enjoyed their duties on such nights. There was something in the shadows of the palace that seemed alive, and the citizens believed that the dead walked – the souls of those taken to the island.  
They fell silent as Vanimórë entered, their minds humming with speculation and curiosity as he unclothed and stepped into warm water. Healing tears stung a little as he sank down and reached for the soft soap, and and he did not pause when several of the men rose and came closer.

''So, you are worth putting some coin on in the Games, Elf?'' one asked, the jovial tone a little forced, some-one not sure which way the cat would jump and over-compensating with a show of friendliness.  
''Ay, I witnessed your exhibition for the Most High last night,'' another spoke with the same too-loud camaraderie. ''And your...friend. Will he fight also, Sir?''

Vanimórë noted the _sir_ with an ironic inner smile. He had received the same ambiguous respect as Sauron's Slave. Anything else, he earned.

''No.'' He stood to allow a slave to pour pitchers of clean water over his soaking hair. ''Elgalad is no Death-warrior.''

''After what I saw, are you sure?'' The man laughed. ''A few people have wounded Doralis, but none have come close to killing him.''

''Considering what he liked to do with the part your friend ripped off, his last thoughts must have been of regret,'' the first said under his breath, but not disguising his satisfaction. Doralis had been feared and hated.

''Elgalad is strong and he was fighting for his life, but he takes no joy in killing.'' Vanimórë wrapped a towel about his hips and his eyes passed over the men as a commander might, noting their stances, scars, their eyes, the thoughts which floated upon the surface of their minds.  
''If thou wouldst wager on me, I think thou wilt not get very good odds. But thy coin will be safe.''

There was the tap of sandals against stone as a man entered from the training ground. He was sweating with exertion, and grains of sand clung like harsh dust to his tanned skin. He was helped from his light armor and stepped down into the bath.

''That was unhuman, Elf,'' he said abruptly. ''But I suppose it would be, as you are not Mortal. If you idle wine-lovers had not been lounging in here you would have seen something, just now.''

''What? What did he do? Who did he kill this time?'' some wit asked with a guffaw as the newcomer reached for a cup and drank.

''Is that the only injury?'' The man indicated the cut on Vanimórë's arm and was answered with a brief nod.

''The tree, I have never seen it turned so fast.'' He put out a hand. ''I am Cartha Noi, I won the Games five years ago.'' There was a general murmur of assent and comments.  
''No-one will beat you, Elf unless they use a bow and even then I am not sure. I watched you at the Spring Games. Are all your kind like you?''  
Vanimórë accepted the proferred clasp. ''Most of us, I suppose. Training does play a part, of course.''

''Hah! Really?'' Cartha grinned. ''I trained my whole life in Fal Carth, in the Seven Dominions. That is where I took my name from, when I entered the Games here. From when I was a boy I trained to come to Tanith, and I reckon your training was not got in any school, Elf. Seen more than a few wars, I wager.''

''Some, and some games also,'' Vanimórë answered.

Cartha, who was obviously respected, had broken through the barriers, and now questions pelted down like stones. The men were mostly young and naturally wary, for Tanith had a way of doing that to its inhabitants, but following the lead of Cartha, they used the opportunity to indulge their curiosity. There was also politics at work here; no-one wished to be on the wrong side of some-one favored by the emir.

''Are you old? Elves are immortal they say?''  
''What wars have you fought in?''  
''Where did you come from?''  
''How strong are you?''

Vanimórë answered their questions with generalities, things which would be known of the Elves in the North, but here were written only in ancient texts. Of himself he said he had mostly traveled in the East, and the North of the Harad as far as Isfahan.  
They asked, too of Elessar. Gondor was far from Tanith, but news came by spy and merchant. Although it might seem another world and remote, it was news from the Outside. Vanimórë realized that all of these people felt, in some deep sense, prisoners. And that was a feeling he was more than familiar with.

_ I could use them, once Taraluk is gone. They are not evil; they try and survive, they keep their ears open and their mouths shut. _

He would have to prove himself, however. Not just as some-one who could kill, but as some-one who could _lead. _ And then he shook his head briefly.  
_ I go too fast. First **She** must be dealt with, then there will be time. And I have not forgotten thee, Khanad. _

A brief, thoughtful silence fell as he dressed and left and then some-one asked:  
''What do you think, Cartha?''

''I think he might be around for a long time," he responded. "And I think you good-for-naughts should be going. Your wives and sweethearts will be wondering where you have got to."

There was a general move toward dressing and Zochana, whom had first approached Vanimórë, lingered to say, under his breath, ''He does not look real, not him or the other. He does not have a scar on him. Hair longer than a woman's...those eyes...But for the what I have seen, I would think him more fit for his other duties. There are legends of his folk, brought here long ago. All agree they are not like us.'' He lowered his voice. ''Demons, some say, Enemies of the Dark One, who is gone.''

''Me, I judge a person on what they do.'' Catha shot the other man a look as if to warn him against saying too much in that vein. ''Do not judge by appearances alone. His grip could have crushed my hand. Watch what he does, and ignore the gossip.''

  
~~~

  
Taraluk had awoken with a surge of energy. Energetic, ravenous for food, wine and sex, he demanded his favored attend him. Hearing that the dark Elf had gone to train, and hearing of his skills, the emir's petulance vanished in a burn of ambition. Some-one so skilled, so _loyal,_ would give him what he desired. And _She_ would be pleased with the fresh meat he sent Her. The truth was, she grew more greedy, and there were fewer and fewer people to send. Many now, had to be bought from the teeming cities along the Slave Coast and slaves, ill nourished or old, did not satisfy Her as healthy, young blood did.

''Sire,'' Nothtar murmured. ''He must still be watched, do not trust any. All are jealous of your power."

''I do not trust, fool,'' Taraluk returned as the deaf and dumb slaves behind him plied great fans. ''But the Lady Herself has told me he will be useful.''

The spy-master fell silent at this, considering the implications and bowed, uneasy behind the impassive mask of his face.

''He...pleases me.'' Something about mastering the black haired beauty, having him squirm and thrust against him, making him bleed, gave him a greater sense of power than anything in his life.  
He would succeed where that fool, Ar-Pharazôn, had failed. There was a strange and twisted symmetry in it, he thought, with delight. Of course the Elves were never to be trusted. Ar-Pharazôn had hated them and would have destroyed them if he could. Even in his own favored he sensed an arrogance that he wanted to crush. The sane part of his mind knew that, from what he had witnessed, the Elf could kill him. That he did not, only bolstered Taraluk's ego.

And then he was there, black hair still heavy-wet to his knees, those eyes, which held a perpetual flame of mocking laughter in their depths, brilliant. He went down on one knee in a reverence of perfect abnegation.

"Sire, Most High. I would see thine army.'' The rim of lashes swept up, the look held under them was intimate, as if he asked for something quite different.

''Why?'' Taraluk asked, leaning forward.

The smile deepened, folding the modeled mouth at the corners.  
''Because with it, Sire, I will conquer the South.''

Silence. The emir's heartbeat leaped.

''You presume much. Only if you win the Games, will I consider you for other...uses.''

''Thou knowest know Most High, that I will win.'' The boast was quite matter-of-fact. ''Thou art wise. I saw the mistakes thine ancestors made, Sire, I will lend my... experience so that they are not repeated.''

Nothtar said, with precise dryness, ''And what would you want, Elf, for such counsel?"

Those gem-like eyes moved deliberately to the emir's groin, hidden in folds of rich silk. Taraluk felt it like a rousing touch.  
''Only thou, Sire,'' Vanimórë murmured, in a voice like the hush of velvet. ''I was sent from Númenor ere its destruction. I...have _ missed _ the attentions of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden all these long, long Ages.''

_ I never humbled myself before Morgoth or my father...but there was not so much at stake, only my damned pride, my survival...now there are those who must be protected...and whoever that thing is, she is not the only one who can make this black-souled bastard sleep deep with repletion ! _

~~~

Elgalad watched Vanimórë leave, his brows drawn together, and felt suddenly stifled, as if the air had gone from the room. With his legs unbound, he longed to use them, run, escape from this place, the fretted stone of the screens, the marble walls, the silent guards at each corner. His fingers clenched and then he turned back to Anwyn.  
''Thou d-didst not sleep,'' he murmured. ''I d-did not realize the night h-had passed. Rest n-now, I will w-watch over thee.''

The sun reached the mid-point of the sky and then began her slow descent. The heat increased in the late afternoon, retained by the white stone. The patterns of light which fell through the lace of the screens had shifted and there was an indolence in the air, a soporific sensation which drew Elgalad toward sleep.

No-one had entered the room save at noon, slaves and a taster with platters, juices and wine in bowls of snow. The sight was not unfamiliar to Elgalad, he knew that snow and ice were carried down from the mountains on the backs of slave-runners and stored underground in straw. Eryn Lasgalen also had ice-houses, and in this southern land, it was a sudden and poignant reminder of the white carpet that cloaked the forest in winter. He touched it, his mind taking him back to the beech-woods, where the bronze leaves would lie year after year, glittering on winter mornings with the diamond sparkle of frost. He closed his eyes for a moment while the chill melted on his fingers, then turned at the quiet unbarring of the door.

There was something about Vanimórë's entrance that imposed silence. The long fingers came down in a slow, swooping gesture, then he pointed to the wall behind where they knew the watchers, patient and ever present, observed them.

''They sleep,'' Vanimórë murmured.

''Why, my L-Lord?'' Elgalad asked softly.

''We have something to do.''

Elgalad's skin pricked. There was a heavy sensuality in the atmosphere that seemed to emanate directly from Vanimórë. All people released this essence of sex when they desired or were aroused, and Vanimórë lived in a constant state of desire for Elgalad, whom he loved and dared not touch, for Glorfindel, for Maglor. So focused had he been on preserving his sexuality under Sauron, that he had almost _created _ it out of iron defiance. But whatever his life, whatever his sire, he was of Noldorin blood – and it was meant to _ burn._

''Let us help thee.'' He turned to Anwyn, and his words were like the weaving of flame in a dark room at night, offering comfort and yet holding at their core a white heat which could scorch even memory to black ashes. But neither he nor his equal, nor any Power could force desire, it was something beyond them. All he could do was offer a coeval sharing of need, of pleasure. It would not be love but it might be healing. She too, now fought against freezing, becoming insensate, afraid that the act of bedding would become engraved in her mind as pain, as shame. So well he knew it.

Color splashed into Elgalad's cheeks as he watched Vanimórë reach out to her, rest his fingers lightly upon the blossoming purple bruise. That too Vanimórë knew; at times the marks on his own skin had been made by the fangs of Uruk. With his other hand he drew Elgalad, sliding his hand up into his hair and cradling the nape of his neck. Gently as a moth coming to rest, he covered the bruise with his mouth, then moved up and whispered in her ear, ''If thou doth wish, we will help thee to forget for a while.''

Heat radiated from his flesh and he forced it down into some place where it could not damage anything, any-one, and then he turned his head, drew Elgalad to him and kissed him. He felt the hunger rise and break.

_Kiss her, Meluion, she needs this, she needs care. _

But she had been so hurt, Elgalad thought, and he wanted Vanimórë, ached for him...

_Let us show her that not everything here is humiliation. If she wishes._

It was as if the blaze that was Vanimórë transmitted itself to Elgalad. He soaked it up as a wash-cloth soaks up water, until he lost all thought and was simply a flame of need, part of the greater fire, wanting to be taken, wanting to give....That need blossomed into the kiss he gave Anwyn. It was hesitant at first, very gentle, offering to salve. When he lifted his mouth, he felt Vanimórë's brush his; it was a shockingly erotic sensation, to kiss her, then his lord. His heart seemed a wild, fey thing which drowned his soft gasps as Vanimórë burned before his eyes into resplendent, dark fire.

~~~


	43. Words Over Wine

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)~ 

  
~ "The High King, my lords."

Maglor, Ecthelion and Legolas rose as Fëanor entered the room, bringing with him a glittering energy, so that the long chamber with its bank of open windows seemed to grow smaller. He was clad in a flame-red tunic and dark breeches, and a circlet set with three superb diamonds bound his brow. _Echoes of the Silmarilli,_ thought his son.

As the host, Legolas came forward and bowed, saying courteously: "Our home is your home, sire, you honor us." His soft voice was calm. Maglor approved of it, and saw his father did also, for his response was polite, nonthreatening.  
"My thanks, Prince Legolas. Thou art gracious."

A light supper had been set out on the portico, for the night was pleasant, the stars a frosted net across the sky. Lamps, encased in amber and yellow glass caught the glitter of jewel, the gloss of hair and sparkle of eyes. Legolas dismissed the servants and poured the wine. Vines grew here and the vintages promised to be excellent, but this was Dorwinion Red Harvest, and since Men did not know of the existence of New Ciuviénen and no goods left or came in, it had surely come by the hands of Vanimórë. The thought of him coming here in secret, caused Maglor's stomach to tighten. The presence of his father had already twisted his nerves near to breaking. It always, always did.

Curufin's words beside the lake had not been uttered in malice. After the initial transcendent joy of re-union with his family, Maglor had returned to a life of solitariness. He had not rejoined his clan – and the reason sat before him, as glorious and dangerous as he had been in Valinor.

Maglor loved his father with the intensity shared by all his brothers, and eldest uncle, yet was still ashamed of his desire. Had he been able to avoid this meeting, he would have, but it was precisely because Glorfindel had foreseen something like this that he had to be in attendance. Maglor had seen that look in his father's eyes before. He had also seen it in another pair of eyes, and at that memory he clenched his back teeth together, hard.

The interaction between high king and prince, however, held all the politesse one would expect between royalty. Fëanor was a master at conversation, and of eloquence, but he also knew how to listen, draw people out. It was only when the covers were removed and the wine was left, that he sat back, long fingers tracing over the chasing on his goblet, that Maglor knew that the meal had only been the preface to this.

"Glorfindel keeps thee so very much to himself, these days, Legolas." Fëanor smiled, but it was the smile of a mousing cat.

"And perhaps thou shouldst ask why a scion of Doriath would want to spend his time with the men who slew its king," Ecthelion said.

"At least one of my sons has made recompense for Doriath." Fëanor looked north for a moment, and then his eyes came back to Maglor, who felt the a prickle of perspiration at his hairline, down his back. When the long glance was moved away, he felt as if a torch had been held close to his skin and was taken away. He thought of a winter night, blood on his sword, blood on his soul, and grief in his heart, when he and Maedhros searched for the young sons of Dior among the forest of Doriath. Their calls had echoed back from the tress which seemed ranked as mourners after the slaughter in Menegroth.

_...one of my sons has made recompense..._  
But it had been too late, and would never be enough...*

"Peace," Fëanor said softly. "No-one has paid more than thee."  
The fire in him seemed banked now. Maglor saw the love under the brilliance. He yearned toward it, wanting to rise and walk into those strong arms, allow the pain to burned away. But he feared that closeness; he knew how such proximity would affect him.

"My one regret is that I died and was not with my sons."

"Nothing else, _adar?_"

"That is where I failed." Fëanor rose, his face lit from within by his thoughts.

"The Valar wanted none of us to live," Ecthelion said harshly. "Thou least of all. Morgoth saved them the trouble of slaying thee."

"If Glorfindel had gone with you, Sire, would you have returned for those you left in Araman?" Legolas raised his head and met Fëanor's eyes straightly. The silence snapped with tension and Maglor thought, _ Does Glorfindel_ still _think he should have offered his body and his service to try and influence my father? _

Fëanor broke the silence with strange softness.  
"I struck the one son who did dare to try and sway me." His gaze flicked to Maglor for a moment – whom had said nothing at Losgar.

The sense of sin scalded him. His father had been too wild then, to question why he second son had not protested. But Maglor would have, had he not followed Fëanor in the icy mists of Araman to ask him his plans – and had seen him meet with Glorfindel. Already heartsick from the battle at Alqualondë, Maglor had seethed with blinding, jealous rage which shamed him to the core then and now. Perhaps he had been touched by madness since Tirion, when his sire unlocked his passions, but left him still virgin. Did Fëanor know what had motivated him? Probably. He felt heat rise in his cheeks.

"I do not know." Fëanor sounded thoughtful. "I was fey with grief and rage. I asked Glorfindel to follow me, to swear allegiance to me. He refused. Tell me," he laid a hand on the back of Legolas' chair and the prince, perforce looked up. "Thinks't thou he should have yielded – begged me to return the ships? that he _would_ have begged me?"

Legolas' profile was still, white and pure against the darkness beyond.  
"He bound himself to Turgon. He would not break his word-bond. I cannot envisage him begging, sire. And he should not have had to."

Something jumped, a white spark in the diamond eyes, and Maglor came to his feet, but then Fëanor laughed suddenly, with appreciation.  
"Glorfindel has been on his knees before me and begged before now." He bent his head and whispered, intimately, "Does he not like it when thou doth kneel before him? Where think'st thou he learned to want mastery?"

Beside Maglor, Ecthelion shot to his feet, but it was Maglor who crossed to his fathers side, knowing that his eyes pleaded as he laid a hand on Legolas' shoulder, feeling it taut and hard. Color had flamed like a brand across the prince's cheeks; his mouth was set, eyes flashing.

For a long moment, Fëanor did not move, as if he tested the reactions of all of them, and then, snapping the tension, showing that it was in his gift to break it, he smiled.  
"It is rewarding to see a beautiful body submit, and know thyself the master of it." He laid his slender fingers on Legolas' hot cheek and there was a spice of mischief in his voice as he added, "Glorfindel does have a good eye...I taught him to _want_." His touch traced lightly down to the hollow of Legolas' throat and rested on the pulse which beat there. His eyes came up to Maglor's with the force of a blow. "I thank thee for thy hospitality, prince." He straightened, "Walk with me, my son."

Maglor had dreaded this, but he could not refuse, and part of him, that traitor part, did not want to. His fingers moved to Legolas' shoulder and tightened there in reassurance, then he turned and followed Fëanor.

~~~

"He plays very close to the edge." Glorfindel's voice was flat with danger as he mounted the hill.

"He would not touch Legolas," Tindómion said. "Want him, yes, but he would not take some-one unwilling – I cannot see that. He has too much pride."

"His pride...! it may be the only time I am grateful for it, but he does not have to use force to make people feel uncomfortable." Glorfindel looked at him in silence for a moment, seeing the concern in the silver eyes, knowing Tindómion occupied a difficult and invidious position. He had come to love his grandsire, though some of his uncles viewed him with jealousy, perhaps because Fëanor had accepted him so quickly. Thus he was torn between ancient friendships and his own blood kin.

"I have slain my own kin. I do not wish to do so again, and it would be so easy to reach inside for the power and destroy. I understand Vanimórë and his reluctance to use it – but Fëanor, Hells! He tempts it! New Cuiviénen would have to be as vast as all the Harad to accommodate those we have there!" At Tindómion's involuntary smile he shook his head. "Very amusing, my friend, until thou art the one who is suppose to watch over them."

"But not control."

"No," Glorfindel vowed with a flash in his eyes. "And yes, I do believe Fëanor would never force any-one – nor would he allow any-one else to in his presence. But he is used to taking what he wants."

"And that is both thyself and Legolas," Tindómion ended for him. "I am not blind, despite my own preoccupations."

"Yes, and now thou dost understand thy grandfather – there can never be just one for him."

"I know." Tindómion turned and went filed a waterskin at a small stream coming down from the sun-scarred white hills. Glorfindel was gazing south and said, without looking around, "Tanith is not far now. Let us eat before we move on."  
Tindómion sat and was subjected to a stare which brought the blood up under his skin.  
"What it is?"

"I did not agree on thy coming so thou wouldst have an opportunity to finish the fight Maglor began with Vanimórë. I can _see_ thy thoughts without any powers at all. We cannot attract attention in Tanith. That is going to be hard at best, even though we will be veiled. Promise me thou wilt keep thy temper under control."

Tindómion's face was hard.  
"My father is not free of what was done to him," he whispered.

"I know he is not, it is why he has never told Fëanor." Glorfindel laid a hand on his friend's arm. "Wouldst thou rather he had died, gone into the void as the others did?"

"No, Eru, no ! I am just...I ache for him, and I cannot help him."

"I know the torment in Maglor's heart, but I cannot heal it," Glorfindel said, softly. "And Vanimórë is only one source of it." His minds eyes fixed on New Cuiviénen, touched Legolas mind for a moment in a caress and thought, _ I will not control them, Maglor must find his own peace, but first he must face his own Balrogs ..._ ~

  



	44. Love Is More Than A Word

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
Anwyn slept deeply for a time. In the presence of Elgalad she felt calm enough to lower some of the barriers she had built about herself. She drowsed past the noon hour, and the heat was at its greatest, for she found that time of the day enervating, preferring the cooler air of the evenings and early morning, which were more akin to that of her home.

Blinking against the golden light for a moment she drew herself upwards and saw that Vanimórë had already returned and silently berated herself for sleeping so long. And then that unearthly gaze was turned towards her and thought left her as though blown away by a great tempest. She felt a warmth steal across her skin that had nothing to do with the heat of the day.

_Let us help thee_

The words had taken her off guard and her brow creased in silent question. Both of them had already helped her a great deal, both in diverting the Emir's attention from her, and in the joy and hope of knowing her husband lived.

As Vanimórë reached out towards her, her eyes were lowered to the swirling tattoos of his arm. The designs were savagely beautiful. It was not the first time she had admired their art, for the custom of permanently marking ones flesh had previously been unknown to her.

As his fingers brushed the bruise left by the Emir's teeth, her head came up once more and she felt a hot flash of humiliation. She had also been marked though it was hardly permanent and it was certainly by no definition beautiful. She had sought to find means to cover it. It embarrassed her, though many of this court were already accustomed to their ruler's use of women and doubtless did not notice it.

Her breath caught in her throat. Desire had become as a stream which flows under a heavy layer of ice. It still existed, but was untouchable. Her eyes widened as his hair brushed against her arm, distilling that rich scent she associated with him. For a moment, she chose to give herself to the many sensations that deluged her: a sensuous waterfall crashing down upon parched land.

_Forget, for a while..._

Anwyn was uncertain if she nodded, spoke or made any sound at all. The wall she had erected about herself was melting like wax before an smith's fire. Elgalad’s deep moan resonated with something inside her, and she hazily watched as Vanimórë’s lips claimed Elgalad’s in a fierce kiss. The searing heat of it touched her. Never had she seen such an exchange between such males, but it was beautiful, and so passionate, that it scorched her.

Then Elgalad's mouth met her own. For a moment she felt conflict. She cared for the Elf, had always enjoyed his company and found his slight stammer endearing. Perhaps she, like far too many others, had seen only his kindness and not the deeper passion beneath the sweetness of his spirit. Anwyn sensed his hesitancy and she held herself back, but as he drew away she felt her back arching up, achingly. Oh! How she needed!

The healthy desire of her womanhood, which Elphir had caused to blaze, had almost guttered out in this place. Now, it fed upon need and and shone once more, but Anwyn had bound herself both body and soul to one man, and while she knew one might feel desire without love, and while she she was drawn toward what Vanimórë exuded, she knew one truth about herself: she was made to love one alone.

  
~~~

  
Slowly, but with grim satisfaction, Elphir felt his strength began to return to him as they days passed. The sun in the sand ring slammed down like a golden hammer, but even that he reveled in after the holds of ships and the dreadful hole where he had been imprisoned. His skin tanned olive even as his strength grew.

The prince had swiftly fallen into step in with the rhythm of this school, as it was so called. All were treated well, but that did not wash away the bitter taste in his mouth the word _slave_ left there. They were treated as fine blood-horses so that they would go out to compete in the games and bring honor to Aethen, nothing more.

The games were on each man's tongue, frilled with excitement. Elphir was given to understand that the Midsummer festivities were comprised of many things, but the games were the centerpiece. The population of Tanith swelled as people who might have traveled from the Lands of Spice of the Seven Dominions came to compete or to watch.  
Elphir cared naught for this, but he saw there a glimmer of opportunity. This was a better gaol than his last, but he was ever aware of the guards that openly carried weapons coated in poison. During the night all were also shackled, though not to the same restricting degree as Elphir had suffered under Ýridhren, but it was enough to ensure that none escaped.

This day he fought against another man, or rather, he thought, a youth, and an eager one who clearly sought to make a name for himself. He was very quick, but reckless. It seemed that Aethen preferred to take those of a younger age if her saw potential, and each year they survived the games they became more skilled. They fought with swords, though Elphir knew that in true battle that one was not always armed with a favored weapon and that anything could be wielded at need.

Amant brandished his sword, lunging forward and feinting back time and time again without ever truly striking. Blood already trickled from a thin gash on Elphir's upper arm, though that mark had been won by another warrior earlier that morning.  
Elphir had been trained since he was a young boy, and once, he had been as rash as the youth who now circled him. Age and maturity had refined him and honed his skills.

“Come! Meet me!” Amant taunted, before losing patience and attempting to perform an elaborate maneuver. Elphir calmly overbalanced the youth, and knocked the blade from his hands. He caught the boy by the forearm and forced him to turn before placing a sandaled foot against his rear and sending Amant face first into the sand. Laughter rang out from nearby.

The Prince had not sought to shame his opponent. He had fought enough to know that an enemy did not adhere to honorable rules in battle cleanly, and this had been a maneuver he had perfected with his brothers. The youth raised himself, brushing the sand from his tunic and gave Elphir a long hard look before collecting his blade. The laughter rang in his ears and he felt the flesh of his face burning. His opponent's back was turned, and the humiliated Amant saw a chance where he might prove that he was not a boy. Raising his sword he charged forward.

The movement was so easily and gracefully executed it might have seemed a move in a dance. Elphir turned upon the ball of his foot, his blade flashing out to ring against the other. His grey eyes sparked into Amant's, who shrank back as a young pup that is warned by an alpha wolf to know its place.

“Do not.” Elphir said shortly and drew away his blade, holding the boys gaze for a long moment before turning away once.

“Enough!” Aethen shouted started forward and, wrenching the blade from Amant's unwilling grasp he fixed the boy with a hard stare.

“You shall burn off some of that energy on the track this afternoon,” He told him. “Off with you. Take your meal and bathe.”

The hour was not yet noon and already the heat was heavy. The fighters did not train during these hours, and passed into the cooler house to wash, or sat under awnings about the sand, eating and drinking, discussing their moves.

Elphir dipped his hands into a bucket and splashed the cool water over his face and shoulders, allowing it to ease the burn of his skin.

Aethen had gone to meet visitors. The prince took no notice for there were many who came, and were permitted to observe for a time, but these two seemed rather different, he thought, as he threw back his wet hair. They carried themselves like true soldiers, not the effete nobles of the city.

Elphir did not openly evince interest, but it was piqued, and he watched as he peeled an orange. Aethen was speaking quickly, deferentially, and from the dress of the younger man Elphir guessed he was of some high rank. He murmured something to Aethen, then walked across to Elphir, and, without preface, spoke.

“I am Prince Khanad and my companion is Gthar.” A pause,wherein Elphir barely nodded. “You fought well.”

Elphir again inclined his head, arms folded across his chest. He was at least Khanad's equal, slave or no, and had no intention of forgetting his lineage in this place. Khanad interested him, however. But for the pale gold gloss of his skin, he had the features and grey eyes of a man of Dol Amroth. ~

 

~~~  



	45. A Suffering Of Fëar

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

_We could give her pleasure, _ Vanimórë thought. _but both she and Elgalad would feel guilt, after. _

Anwyn had been forced by Taraluk. If she gave herself willingly now, she would feel it a betrayal of her husband, and guilt might corrode her relationship with Elphir in years to come.

Vanimórë passed his thumb over the curve of Anwyn's lips, kissed her lightly and moved away. Elgalad was trembling, lashes lowered over the brilliant pallor of his eyes and Vanimórë drew him close. The hot cheek, flushed with blood, pressed into his neck and he murmured, ''Peace, Meluion.'' then, "Thou hast not lost the ability to desire, Anwyn, though I will not tell Elphir that." He smiled teasingly, lowering the hectic level of sensuality in the chamber. More seriously, he added, ''Thou wilt see Elphir, thou wilt return to Dol Amroth. Memories do not fade, but thou canst make new ones.''

He guided her to sit on the edge of the couch, then still with an arm about Elgalad, he poured wine into three goblets, it was still cool, misting the silver bowls. Elgalad closed his fingers about it, and the thin metal dented under the weight of his grip as he raised it and drank.

''Forgive m-me,'' he whispered, without voice.

''What for, my dear?''

Elgalad shook his head.

"I know how it is," he said to Anwyn. "to feel thyself nothing but an object. But thou knowest in thy heart there is more than that. Do not forget it.'' He touched her shoulder, then drew Elgalad from the room. In his own chambers, he poured wine and walked to the balcony. Patterns of light dashed over them through the intricately worked stone of the screens.

''Look at me.'' He lifted Elgalad's face in his hands. "If thou hadst lain with her, I would not have seen it as a betrayal."

"I know," Elgalad whispered, and there was deep hurt in his eyes. "I d-do know that."

''I love thee so much.'' Vanimórë let his fingers gently trace the cheeks, lips, jaw. ''I still do not know what I did to thee, how thou canst love me. But I was only one note of music, a piece moved upon a game board; to find thy mother, to take thee in my arms as a babe, to raise thee, my _innocence,_ the child I could never engender, the unblemished fruit which I could not pluck, son of a King, Elf, beautiful, loving, and mine.''

"All th-those things," Elgalad stared at him. "_Thine._ "

_ Thou wilt drive me mad, Meluion, ere the end, the balance is so delicate, narrow as the edges of my blades. To take thee and change thee would cause me to fall, to be with thee gnaws like a rat at my innards..._

''Yes.'' He locked his arms about Elgalad, felt the slippery silver hair against his cheek, the soft lips on his neck, giving, always giving, offering love, offering himself – _and always certain that he was not enough._

_ If thou only knew! _

Once Elgalad would have given all just to be this close, enfolded within those strong arms, secure, cared for. Perhaps he was greedy to desire more, but at this proximity his flesh burned, and he was eaten by need. Bewilderment and embarrassment still roiled within him. He would have lain with Anwyn, and then after – what would she have thought, how would he have justified it? She might loathe him, for taking advantage of her vulnerability.

"Desire does not need to be justified, and thou truly knowest that," Vanimórë told him. ''Be at peace. Nothing happened.'' He kissed the hair, laid his hands on the wide shoulders and drew back.  
''I have persuaded Taraluk to show me his closest army camp. There is a barracks outside Tanith, and other garrisons across the realm. I want to see how they are trained, what stuff they are made of. He will be away from here this night and no-one will disturb Anwyn. Thou hadst better come with me. This is purely a military matter. If the Emir is serious about conquest,'' his voice went dry. ''he must do more than drink wine, take drugs and roll with his favored. Empires, after all, are not built by sitting on ones rear.''

He stepped away and threw up the lid on a clothes-chest, drawing out breeches, boots and tunic.

_ I like that way of dressing thee._ He cast a smile at Elgalad, his eyes tracing appreciatively over the long, lovely legs, the way the silk clung to muscle, and taut buttock and bared the straight shoulders. _ But to ride out in, it is not practical. _

''My l-lord... ''

''We have not much time.'' Vanimórë took a comb and gold thread and began to work braids into the fair hair.

_Hush, Meluion. _

_She is my friend, and she would have hated herself after. _

The hands weaving the plaits slowed and paused.

_ Yes, I think she would. Still, perhaps we have proved to her that she is still the woman she was. _ Vanimórë kissed Elgalad's head. _ It was my fault. I came from Taraluk, enraged and frustrated, I needed....thou didst feel that, it infected thee. _

_I wanted thee. I always want thee. _

_It is reciprocated, my dear._ A gentle laugh was the only audible sound in their silent back-and-forth of speech. He pulled the Elgalad back against his chest.

_Feel me, feel how I want thee, **always **, Meluion. _ The mind-tone roughened like velvet torn by sharp nails.

Elgalad moaned like a man in a fever as he tipped back his head. _ Take me ! _

_Not here, not now, the time is not right for us. _

_It never will be, Fos Almir did not make me Light, it made me only more than I was... _

_I will go mad. _

_So will I, if I am not already..._ Vanimórë met the parted lips, tasting the intoxicating honey of the mouth. He kissed Elgalad with passion, softened it to pure love, and raised his head.

''We must go,'' he sighed.

_ My lord? _ Elgalad's hands clutched at the black shirt Vanimórë wore, his eyes wide with arousal. He looked more desirable than he could possibly realize.  
_ Thou wouldst not truly conquer for the emir? Make war for him? Create an **empire ** for such a **madman? ** _

Vanimórë shook his head, smiling.  
_ What, give the toss-pot the keys to the cellar full of Dorwinion wine? _ His fingers closed firmly over Elgalad's. _ No, my dear, this is not for ** him **. This will be for me. _ ~

~~~

 

~ The Emir rode. A tall, strong man, enhanced by the Lady of the Isle, he enjoyed displaying himself astride his great stallion, its harness mounted with silver. He soaked up the fear-tinged awe of the citizens as the criers went before him. People forced cheers as he passed along the Royal Way, before taking a road which veered west, and after a few leagues the watch towers of a fortress loomed into view.

Taraluk was pleased to have an audience, one who did not know the history of his realm, and he told of the Founding by the Númenoreans, and the gradual expansion of their early settlement. There had been wars for lands and wealth, and gradually Tanith had absorbed smaller kingdoms until now it stretched north to Mumakan with whom a wary peace existed after several border wars. But Taraluk did not intend for that peace to last long, and his army had grown under the command of Khanad. There were fifty thousand now, he said.

_ I could double that, _ Vanimórë thought as soldiers drilled before him. The sense of potential cast him back to Sud Sicanna, when he had had a thousand years to train an army to his own standards. He had made joining the army a thing of pride. Soldiers were respected in Sud Sicanna.

_ Black and purple, those will be my colors, with one white, rayed star in the center. The Silmaril which I brought from the deeps and my own light, Elgalad. My light in the darkness... _

''Sire, what privileges do the army have?''

The look the Emir cast at him was almost childishly surprised.  
''They serve me. I am Tanith,'' he replied simply.

_ Homes built for them, paid for by the treasury, less tax, good physicians, great Healing Houses, pensions for the widowed and injured. I made men **want ** to join the army, younger sons with few prospects, noble, merchant class, weaver, farmer, all are equal, merit is earned. Make people proud of their city, their nation...  
I go ahead of myself, but it will be so. I will make it so! _

''Ah, yes,'' he replied. ''I see. of course.''

Elgalad, veiled so that only the pale flash of his eyes showed, watched in silence. Vanimórë felt his tension.

_ Soon, Meluion, soon we will walk under the stars, free again. _

And the stars were glorious that night.

A great pavilion had been erected for the Emir, partitions of heavy silk formed rooms within it, the floor was laid with rugs and pillows and braziers smoked incense. Unable not to know what was happening, separated only by cloth, Elgalad buried his head on his knees and pressed his hands over his ears like a child. His teeth clenched and his eyes burned as he forced back moans of disgust. The emir took Vanimórë violently, bellowing out his lust, and Elgalad grappled with a desire to kill him, to stop the sewer-words, the rape. He would feel not the slightest guilt in doing so, and even as the urge brought him to his feet, he heard a calm:  
_ Peace, my dear. We play this to the end._  
Shaking with fury, he subsided, and after a while, there was silence.

He jumped as a hand touched his hair and surged up into Vanimórë's arms. The stench of the Emir was still on him: earth and bitter flowers, sweat sour with narcotics and wine. Elgalad raised his head and offered his lips. He felt the heartbeat quicken, the arms tighten, the breathing shiver and then was plunged into a devastating kiss which blazed like a fire-arrow into his soul. He pressed himself wildly against Vanimórë's hardness, who thrust back into him, again and again. They writhed against one another until Elgalad exploded into such violent release that his body throbbed as a harp string resounds with a low, vibrato note.  
Lowered to the cushions, he curled against Vanimórë, his head tucked against his neck, gasping against the smooth skin. He had not even been possessed, he was still clothed, yet he pulsated as if he had been, aftershocks sending tremors through him. It was always like this. He did not know what would happen to him when Vanimórë took him wholly. Which he would. He had to.

_And I did not even give him pleasure..._

_ Do not believe that, Meluion._

Elgalad's responsiveness was almost wonderful, and so powerful it alarmed Vanimórë.

_He will never keep anything back, never hold any part of himself back, body or soul. _

~~~

**Elf blood...it had been a long, long time. Rich, delicious...and something more in that one... something more....**

In her woven curtains of darkness, She stirred.

** More. I need, more. **

~~~

The Emir returned to the city in the cool of the morning, was closeted with Vanimórë, Khanad, and many maps. Elgalad, in their chambers, restlessly crossed to the screened window, looking down at the enclosed garden below.  
It was beautiful; perhaps the more so for being a jewel in a place of heat and glaring white stone. The flowers were strange to him, hot colors of red, orange, lemon-yellow pouring from urns and pots, and the roses were not the wild ramblers he was used to, but great, lusciously perfumed blossoms.

A woman was walking among them, her head crowned with silver, gold-threaded robes sweeping behind her. Behind her followed a slave-woman bearing a fan and two guards, giving her a little space, but no privacy. Anwyn seemed like a lioness in too small a cage, no matter that it might be built of marble and set with gems.

The door closed behind him and he turned, as a slave bearing food and wine on a tray entered with a taster. She looked at him as she poured, dark eyes lined with black, slender under the white robes. Her expression was grave, not simple curiosity, he thought, something else was there: words held behind closed lips. Her gaze came back to him again and again.

''P-please,'' he murmured, as she turned. ''Wait.''

She stopped in one footstep, her head bowed.

''What is it?''

Her shoulders tensed as if against a sudden blow. Elgalad bent his head and said softly,  
''I w-will not hurt thee. Thou didst wish t-to speak to m-me?''

Her eyes flashed up in startlement.  
''It is true that Elves read minds,'' she whispered.

''I d-did not read thy m-mind, lady.''

She raised a hand to her mouth, half covering it and breathed, ''You are the one who killed Doralis, lord?''

Elgalad winced slightly at the memory of the huge man and nodded.

''I wanted to see you,'' her voice lowered yet more. ''He killed my brother.''

_So much horror in this place,_ Elgalad thought.  
''I am sorry, lady.''

Her head shook vehemently.  
''I am a slave, lord." she sounded horrified at the title. "Yet I would thank you. My brother was but ten years old. He... Doralis, raped him and killed him. I hope the beast rots in the Great Dark !'' Her voice became pure hate and venom for a moment .

_Oh, Eru. I cannot be sorry that I killed him. _

''The One w-will judge him,'' he said softly, moving to take her hand.

''_You_ judged him lord, that is enough for me,'' she replied. His touch was gentle, soothing, all of his presence was. The whites of his eyes were almost silver, but she recognized pain in him and a silent suffering which made him less remote and awesome than the black haired one. ''My brother's soul will rest quiet now in the Garden of Death.''

''The G-Garden of Death,'' he repeated. It sounded peaceful, almost beautiful. If he could, he would have promised her that soon fear and injustice would be ousted from Tanith, but he did not know how that would be done, only that he trusted Vanimórë implicitly. He squeezed her hand, an attempt to reassure and said: ''What is thy n-name?''

''Aiana, lord.''

He would remember it he thought, some-one who grieved and was a slave, who needed care.

''Aiana. The L-Lady Anwyn? She w-walks in the g-garden yonder. Dost thou see? Wilt thou t-take a message for m-me? I would join h-her, if she w-wishes. Wilt th-thou tell her that?''

She nodded, she would have done anything. He had slain her brother's rapist, he lit up the room like the gentle glow of candle-light at the onset of night. The other stamped himself in ferocious and dangerous beauty on the eyes and mind, but this one was kind, and there was a strange innocence in his eyes, as if he had walked from a land where all was peaceful, or the Garden of Death itself. He looked unearthly, yet she felt an almost motherly desire to stroke his hair, embrace him. Some-one who had torn off Doralis' child-raping shaft with his bare hand should not evoke protective feelings.

''I thank thee.'' Elgalad smiled as she departed and then fortified himself with a sip of the pale wine.

_ I have to see Anwyn and...apologize, if I can. _

~~~

Behind the screens, one of the watchers drew what appeared to be a number of symbols on a scrap of paper and handed it to another waiting in the space between the walls.  
Deciphering it, Nothtar set it in a brazier where it smoked, and caught alight, leaving only fine ash.

_ Perhaps two there for the Ship, _ he thought with a satisfied little smile. _ And, if the Lady smiles on us, that black haired bastard also. I think all can be disposed of, by the time the Games are ended. _

He turned. ''Now tell me of the prince,'' he invited the man who waited nervously. ''And the one he spoke to at Aethen's school....'' ~

~~~


	46. Behind The Screens

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  


“You are from the North,” Khanad stated, looking hard at Elphir for a moment, before his eyes moved away. Without moving his lips, he said softly, casually: “I know of your wife.”

''**My Wife?!**''  
Elphir did not lower his voice, and several people turned at his outburst. Khanad drew back appearing startled and wary and shook his head before taking out a fan and plying it before his face.

“Soft!” he chided. “More is at play here than you can possibly know. She is safe, and I give you my word she shall remain safe.” The words earned him a sharp look from Gthar, who knew Khanad could promise no such thing.

Elphir looked at the man as keenly. Who precisely was this prince, and what involvement had he with Anwyn? He felt inclined to beat the answers out of Khanad if necessary and at his side, his hands were curled themselves into fists. It was his duty to protect his wife. He had failed her, and the knowledge filled him with cold fury. Was Khanad taking his place as protector, and more? He glared at the other man, but the grey eyes held only a certain empathy, instilling trust without words. Elphir looked a question.

Khanad nodded briefly and turned away as though to address Gthar.  
“Do you have a message for her?”

“None that she does not already know” Elphir said softly, glancing away.

~~~

From behind the wooden doors there came a small knock. It sounded faint to the ears of the guards who maintained a constant watch beyond it. A moment passed and another before the tap was repeated, louder and rhythmically. Still the guards choose not to heed it, their expressions stoic and their stances rigid. More time passed and then a loud thud echoed as if the door was being kicked. This last caused the guards to turn and look at one another, then cautiously unlock the door. One of them opened it a little and it was thrust back forcefully, surprising the soldier into retreating as it hit him on the breastplate.

“I wish to walk in the gardens.”

The guards were rendered speechless by the boldness of the woman’s tone. She simply strode past them as they stood gaping at her, and since no woman of Tanith behaved in such a fashion it was a moment before they collected themselves and stepped to block her path. Both were armed and made a point of showing their weapons but neither would have dared harm her. Anywn’s pale grey eyes flashed defiantly as she drew herself up short in mid step.

“Would you hinder me?” Her tone was low, yet carried an unmistakable edge of challenge.

The men were well used to the task of guarding the women that the Emir chose to favor for a time, though like the bright glorious flowers of the gardens beyond they would only remain radiant for a time ere they disappeared.  
“You may not go unattended,” one said at last. Both were to keep the woman under careful guard and not allow her to wander, but there had been naught said of allowing her some movement around the palace.

“I shall go as I please,” Anwyn returned easily “If it is your orders to follow, then do so.”

She would not have been returned to her rooms easily had they forced the issue, and perhaps they knew it. She feared for her sanity should she confined to them for a moment longer and alone with her thoughts which inevitably turned to the day before.  
It had brought a cool flush of relief to realize that Taraluk's rape had not robbed her of desire. She had recovered what had been torn from her, allied to a hotter burn of shame that for a moment she had wanted to succumb to the desire. She felt no loyalty towards the Emir, but she did toward her husband.

Not once before had she ever been so tempted and she felt a certain pride that she had been able to control herself. It had, she admitted, not been easy, but her love for Elphir was the rock placed in the center of her life. The river of life and experiences, good and bad passed it by, but never submerged it or washed it away. And yet...she had been tempted. The Elves touches had not felt unwholesome, whereas Taraluk's evoked disgust.

Pressing a burning cheek against the stone she gazed out into the garden. The plants and flowers were strange yet beautiful, some she had never seen in either Rohan or Dol Amroth.  
She smiled dryly as she stepped out, thinking perhaps she owed the Emir something after all, for it was his manner she had turned on the guards; the demeanor of one who could not conceive any would question them. Of course, she was not alone; a slave woman and two guards followed, and her stride lengthened to separate herself from them until she realized the futility of it and slowed again.

The scent of roses hung heavy on the air, and Anwyn paused for a moment for the scent took her back to another time. The soft sweep of her the fan only intensified their perfume. She looked up. High walls rose above her. A prison garden...

The guards noticed the approach of the slave girl before Anwyn, deeply engrossed in her thoughts. She turned sharply on the ball of her foot as she heard the clash of spears. The girl shrank back, began to retreat and Anwyn felt a swell of anger.

“Stop! What does she want?”

“I have a message for the lady,” the girl's voice was almost inaudible.

“And I shall hear it,” Anwyn replied striding forward with an assurance that left no room for debate.

“My lady, the Elf wishes to join you,” the girl said softly.

“There are two of them,” Anwyn answered with a faint smile.

“The fair one, mistress.”

“And there are two of those also.”

“The fair haired one, lady.”

_Elgalad. _  
Confusion bloomed within Anwyn. Elgalad’s presence was a light among the great darkness of this place, but now she felt guilty, embarrassed. There were a great many things she would have done the day before and not felt ashamed of, were it not for her love for Elphir. If she were not so bound she would have allowed herself to enjoy the pleasure offered to her. Yet after, when she was gathering her disordered thoughts, she remembered seeing shame on Elgalad’s expressive features. All the blood ran from her own face at the realization that perhaps it had been _she_ whom had inspired it, she or perhaps her rejection? Blood pounded back into her cheeks, and she as only vaguely aware of the guards questioning the slave.

“No.” she reached out towards the girl who had taken her word as a refusal, and scampered out of sight. Sharply turning away, she fought the hot tears of self-loathing that threatened to spill down her cheeks. She struggled to stand tall and straight, although she felt that she had lost something again, and it was nearly enough to drive her to the ground.

  
~~~

  
Kora was rather squat, balding and not particularly pleasing on the eyes and this was of benefit to him, for in his business it paid to be overlooked. He raised a hand to wipe away some of the sweat from his brow as he considered his next words. He had followed the Prince to the school and observed from a distance, for he was skilled in reading lips.

“The man he spoke with was from Northern lands,” he opined, tongue flicking out to moisten his thin lips.

Nothtar leaned back into the heavily chair . “Go on,” he drawled. “One of new Aethen's new pets?” A dry humorless laugh followed.

“It seemed as though the Prince had upset him,” the man continued. “Spoke of a wife.”

Nothtar was already pleased by what he had learned, but there was something in this that tugged at the back of his mind: two threads that were perhaps more closely intertwined than he had at first thought. Slave ships would travel vast differences if trade was lucrative enough for them to face the dangers of long voyages. Slaves from the North were exceptionally rare but not unheard of, though that two from those distant lands should both be in Tanith did seem a strange coincidence.

It was also odd that Khanad should trouble himself with these slaves. It spoke poorly of his breeding as far as Nothtar was concerned, though the spymaster knew that the prince's mother had been a kind woman. Weak, he amended.

_ A wife. Strange. _ He mused silently. Many warriors fought in the games, and if they survived, acquired wealth enough to buy several fine wives. ''Interesting.'' ~

 

~~~  



	47. Trust

 

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
Elgalad, looking through the screens, spun and strode to the door, hammering on it with a clenched fist. It was opened immediately and the guards found their spears thrust back. Discomposed, they levelled them toward him again with the irresolute manner of men who did not know how much force was permitted.

''I g-go to see the l-lady.'' The grey eyes were unexpectedly hard with resolve. Elgalad did not possess Vanimórë's arrogance, but he was angry, and no-one was going to stop him from seeing Anwyn. This, for the guards, was where the matter grew thorny. No orders about pertaining to Elgalad had directly come from the emir and perhaps, more importantly, from Nothtar. He had been permitted to spend time in the woman's chambers however, and one of the guards, thinking along these lines, drew back, nodded at the other. It was Zochana, whom had spoken to Vanimórë in the baths.

''I will lead you,'' he said.

''I thank th-thee.'' The reply was infinitely more gentle than had been the impetuous thrusting back of their weapons, and Zochana speculated as he marched down the hall, then took the steps down to the garden.

Anwyn's demeanor which Elgalad felt as shame and confusion, Aiana's treatment, as if she were nothing, a pebble on a road to be kicked aside, impelled Elgalad onward and the slave-girl, pattering up the steps ran straight into him. He caught her and she wrenched back with a small cry.

''Soft now,'' Zochana said brusquely. ''What is amiss?''

''Lord, I know not whether the Lady will see you...'' Aiana felt herself righted by slender hands.

''I w-will go to her,'' Elgalad murmured. ''Come with m-me.''

Apparently all the slaves here must do whatsoever they were ordered, he thought, for she bowed, and fell behind him. Zochana halted, allowing the Elf to go on, and said:  
''Has he asked for you to his couch?''

Aiana shook her head.  
''No, sir. But he killed Doralis.''

Zochana understood. The emir had allowed Doralis free rein to slake his twisted appetites. He had hated the man, and were he truthful, feared him.

Elgalad felt the heat stain his cheeks as he crossed to Anywn, and the words faltered on his tongue. He swallowed, tried again, inwardly cursing the fact that when he were nervous his stammer worsened. It embarrassed him deeply, and the only time he was not conscious of it was in Vanimórë's company. He had to say _something_ aloud, he realized, or why would he have insisted on coming down to see her?

''L-Lady?'' he whispered. ''I only w-wished to see h-how thou wert this d-day.''

_I wanted to tell thee that I was sorry, _ his mind voice was perfectly enunciated. _ I know how much you love Prince Elphir. I cannot excuse myself, there **is** no excuse._ His color deepened. _I wanted to help thee. Please trust me. I will not touch thee again, and I think we three must trust one another in this place. _

Cartha, who was one of those guarding Anwyn on this day, casually moved across to Zochana.

''Morning, friend,'' he adjusted his chinstrap, covering his mouth with his hand as he did so. ''What goes on?''

''The Elf wanted to see the Lady, quite...adamant about it he was.''

''Knock you out of the way did he?'' There was a grin in the words.

''Our spears.'' Zochana was still ruffled by that.

''We have no orders for him, so long as he does not try and escape he can do as he wishes, I think.''

''Do you think he is closer to her than we know?''

Cartha gave an imperceptible head-shake. ''Not from what I have heard, he adores the dark Elf, you can see it in his eyes. If a woman looked at me that way I would feel like a prince.''

''If a woman looked at you like that, her eyes would be crossed and she would be blind with drink.'' Zochana jibed clearly enough for any spies to recount a simple exchange of good-natured insults. His voice became almost inaudible again. ''Just as well, no-one would be able to save him if he was seen to get too close.''

''It seems to me as if our black haired demon deliberately tries to pull all the Most High's attention to himself,'' Cartha muttered. ''Why do you think that is?''

''Surely it is because he loves the Most High and is jealous of any-one else claiming his favor,'' Zochana returned, straight-faced.

''Of course.'' They looked wryly at one another. ''And he was taken to the army garrison....'' A silence stretched out. "All I say is... watch what he does, my friend. Watch carefully."

_Shifts of power,_ thought Cartha. The prince must be itching in his boots at this latest. It would not bode well for him if the dark Elf won the Games and was raised to the position of general..._  
Pity, he is a good man._

''And that one?''

''He killed Doralis. He would be loved for that alone, certainly I would embrace him for it.''

''So would I. A shame to see them all die.'' And they would. They had already tipped the balance too far. If the emir did not loose interest and his temper with them, some-one else would see them dead.

''A wager? That no-one can kill the dark Elf? Perhaps not this one either.''

Zochana grimaced. ''Assassins do not play by the rules of combat, Cartha. Thirty silvers.''

''Done. I could always pluck you like a pigeon. You are no gamer, my friend.''

Not here, the man thought, not in this land, the games they played used living pieces on the board.

~~~

Khanad was indeed disturbed since learning that the emir had taken Vanimórë out to the troops. Usually he, the Commander-in-Chief, would have accompanied them. After he met his father and Vanimórë later that day, he was even more perturbed.

Vanimórë, it was apparent, knew war. He knew it intimately. He could probably plan strategies and lead soldiers in his sleep – if he ever slept. There seemed to be nothing of armor, maneuvers, or battles that he did not know. He spoke of wars he had fought in in the north of Harad and in far Rhun, of infantry, of cavalry, of the merits of both, of siege, of morale. And the Emir had actually listened, for this chimed with his own designs. He might become fogged with wine and narcotics, but he was not foolish. Nothtar and Enoch were useful, and so he used them, Vanimórë would be useful, and so Taraluk would likewise use him.

''Tell me.'' The emir sat forward, hands on his great table. ''How would you face the Mumakan, for they use their great beasts and that has always crushed our armies when we have met before.''

''I need to see a map,'' Vanimórë said. ''Choose the terrain, Sire. Do not let them force thee into battle where they can use the Mumakil.''

''Unfortunately, the south of Mumak is composed of great plains, with only some jungle in the east,'' Khanad remarked. ''And we cannot _choose_ that.''

''When the Mumakil charge, nothing wishes to be in their way,'' Vanimórë agreed. ''But they are cumbersome and easily frightened. By nature they are not savage creatures, unless guarding their herd, or rogue.'' He pointed. ''Here are hills and passes: Tanith's border.''

''Those are narrow and rocky and not suitable for Mumakil, I agree," Khanad nodded. "Although horses may traverse them.''

''Mumak can be frightened, and like all creatures fear being fire,'' Vanimórë mused. ''Once they break their line they are impossible to control. And foot soldiers march behind them.''

''At a safe distance, they also have learned that a charging Mumak is as dangerous to their own ranks as others.''

"I can deal with them.'' Vanimórë's eyes lifted in a flash of purple. ''And I intend our infantry to be more than able to meet another and best it. I did not see many archers.''

''We do have archers,'' Khanad answered. ''But our weapons are primarily the sword and spear.''

''Good archers can force the enemy to group together as is normal for people under fire, and allow the cavalry to break their disordered line. Elgalad can train archers, he is skilled.''

Taraluk had been silent, wallowing in visions of conquest. Now he bestirred himself, and the look he shot his son was chilling. It was the the expression of one whom had been given a toy and no longer found it amusing, who would discard it for a new one.

_ Gthar is right, this will be my death. _

_Trust me, Prince. Not ** thy ** death. _

But Khanad could not trust so easily. The shadow of the Black Ship sailed, silent as an executioner, into his mind.~

~~~


	48. Eyes of Fire, Souls Of Flame

 

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
~ A servant had brought Fëanor's horse, but he did not mount it and it followed behind as he walked from Glorfindel's villa with his son.

New Ciuviénen threw light into the sky. Lamps gleamed at the windows of the palace and mansions, and there was music; the sound of voices raised in paeans of joy, love – and some of sorrow, for the Doom of the Noldor would never be forgotten. And he whom had laid it upon them, now paced beside his second-born, his long stride curtailed to the measure of his thoughts.

Maglor knew what his father was doing. No-one could be more eloquent than Fëanor, yet he also knew when to be silent, so that one felt forced to speak rather than endure the brilliant eyes which could read so much from that silence.

"father?" he began, feeling his flesh hot in the milk-mild night. Fëanor knew the reason for his distance, or at least one reason, but it was not this forbidden attraction alone which caused him to avoid his father. He had never told him of the other, the one who had brought him back from death. Fëanor knew of Vanimórë, of Maglor's captivity and torture by Sauron, that he had been released by Sauron's own son. He knew that Maglor had dueled with Vanimórë, leading to the events which had come to pass. He had seemed to accept the explanation that Maglor had been mad. Unable to reach Sauron who was gone, he had sought the son.

And Maglor knew that his father did not believe it.

The rich-timbered: "Yes, my son?" brought him back abruptly from his thoughts and he said: "Legolas is not for thee – and neither is Glorfindel."

"Are they not?" Fëanor turned and faced him.

"Thou knowest it."  
The muscles under his impulsive grip were steel-hard, and the face shone in the darkness with that wild radiance which made him seem like flame only barely contained within flesh. The sight _ hurt_ Maglor, for he could not believe that it had been consigned to the Void. Maedhros had spoken of it as being eternal damnation, mocked by Morgoth and those who had followed him, unable to touch another soul – but always they had felt Fëanor's fell and defiant blaze.

"I could not destroy a true love, Macalaurë. The truth was that Glorfindel and Ecthelion did, and still do share a deep love and friendship but they are not and never were _in love._ There is a difference. I showed Glorfindel how to desire, but it seems that he had to wait a long time to find one he truly loves." His teeth showed a glint of frost-white. "A Sindarin prince, all gold and pearl, yet a warrior too – and beautiful."

"Then thou wilt not...?"

"I have never forced any-one against their will. Come." He laid a hand on Maglor's back and propelled him gently along. "I know he set thee and Ecthelion to guard Legolas, but he insults me if he believes I would _force_ the prince. There are many ways to love, but I fear only one way to lust. And I know that way – very well indeed." There was a thread of laughter in the words. "And sometimes the two are intermingled. Glorfindel still lusts for Legolas as much as loves him."

"Legolas is quite capable of defending himself against force."

"I know." At the unspoken question, he elaborated: "From thy son, who has spent more time with me than his father."

Maglor's mouth dried.  
"It is hard for me after so long, _adar_...I often dreamed...sometimes I did not know how I survived, what was real – I am still afraid this is one of those dreams and I will wake and find myself beside the ocean and all of thee will still be gone." Which was the truth, but not all the truth.

His father stopped dead. His hands came up to grip Maglor's shoulders and there was something in that bright face now which was not amusement, nor desire, but pain, vivid as sheet-lightning.  
"My Canafinwë, I knew thou didst not die, I felt thee and thy despair and madness and thy torment. If I could have fought my way out of Night to comfort thee..." His fingers gently cupped Maglor's face. "I did not know how long it was, but I felt thee. Thou art my blood, and thy suffering was another punishment visited upon me."

Maglor cast himself into his father's arms, his face buried in the glassy black hair. He clung as if he were a child again, when the only one whose love and approbation he truly sought would sweep him up and hold him, make him feel as if he were protected at the heart of the raging fire. He felt the wildness penetrate him, the beat of the heart, the soul, perilous and magnificent.

"I knew what he did to thee."  
The whisper stiffened every muscle in Maglor's body, and for a moment he thought Fëanor was referring to Vanimórë. He drew back. Fëanor's eyes were lamps in the night.

"Sauron." The name contained such hate that it seemed to singe the air, but through the horror of his memories, Maglor felt vast relief.  
"I felt it. I _saw_ it. Morgoth laughed in the void. The soul can still weep, and I did, for all of thee. Yet he did not truly break thee. Any of thee. It was my oath that broke all my sons in the end."

_If he saw that, then why did he not see what happened after? _ Maglor wondered, bewilderedly. Unless Morgoth could somehow prevent that, because it had not pleased him.

"I should not have died, left thee to bear the oath alone !" Fëanor's face blazed and his son flashed: "No, thou shouldst not!" And it was as if no time had passed, as he saw again the two Balrogs snap their whips about his father's body, while Gothmog, mightiest of them all, raised his great sword, as if Fëanor were a base prisoner to be executed.

_ My world ended then. _ He did not know if he said it aloud, but his father heard the words, and locked his arms tight once more. Maglor felt the wonderful mouth touch his brow.

"I will not leave thee again." Another oath, a vow whispered from the lips which drew a pattern of fire down his cheek. They rested on his, chaste and comforting for a moment, until it changed, and Maglor felt his soul, his body rise to Fëanor's desire, yearning to be burned...His eyes closed, the hardness in his groin ached.

"My beautiful son." The kiss was oddly sweet, not a lovers kiss, and not a father's. "I leave tomorrow, with Fingolfin and Caranthir."  
The change of subject, the pound of his heart, disoriented Maglor, "Only to ride a little beyond the mountains, to see what lands lie there. Come with me."

And Maglor said: "Yes, father."

He walked back to the villa, still hard, wondering if Fëanor would go to Fingolfin's house. A surge of jealousy shook through him, yet he loved his uncle, and had not both of them sought to reach Fëanor through one another, long ago?

He was torn again, drawn by his father, adoring him as a son, desiring him as a lover, the other piece which formed an angle of the triangle: himself, Fëanor and Vanimórë.

~~~

Legolas and Ecthelion looked up as he entered. The prince wordlessly offered him wine and he smiled his thanks before drinking. It steadied him.

"My father is leaving tomorrow," he told them. "I will go with him, and Fingolfin and Caranthir. He wishes to see the lands to the East."

"Is that wise? I believed we were _ not _ to leave here." Ecthelion said and Maglor answered, "It is best not to hint that our new home is another Tirion, not to father. I believe that there are some nomadic tribes beyond the mountains."

Ecthelion nodded. "Are they not part of the Empire of Cathaia, though? Try to persuade him to remain inconspicuous, Maglor." That he made no further objection was due to the fact that he knew no-one could dissuade Fëanor, and in the unlikely event anything happened to him, Ecthelion would not grieve overmuch.

"I doubt we will see any-one." Maglor sipped the wine and then said, directly to Legolas, "People far older than thee have handled themselves with less aplomb when speaking with my father. That was well done."

The prince flushed. "As he is your father, and you know him, did he seek to taunt me, speaking of himself and Glorfindel – and me?"

"Unfortunately, he did not taunt thee at all," Maglor murmured. "Glorfindel has not distanced himself and thee because he fears for thee. My son knows of thy skills with the knives and bow, and he has spoken of them. But thou must know by now that Glorfindel is very possessive." The light blush deepened a little, rosy on Legolas' alabaster countenance. "And here, he does have reason to be. For he also knows my father. He desires thee, he would have both thee and Glorfindel again if he could. But he would never try to force thee and he would not permit any-one else to."

Legolas came to his feet, shook his head. "I will not have _that_ happen again," he said, harking back.

Maglor rested a hand on Legolas' back, and the lamplight wove threads of pale gilt and moonsheen through the thick fall of hair.  
"My father has not changed. He will never change. But do not be troubled, he knows that love is a bonding he cannot break, nor, I believe would he wish to." He kissed Legolas' cheek, "There are others who love thee – my son for one, and Ecthelion and I have come to. Thou art not unlike Elgalad, and he loves thee also. I could wish he were here."

"Yes, I think of him often," Legolas nodded, "But I lived with him, trained him, fought with him, and he would never be happy away from Vanimórë."

"Then he is still a fool !" Maglor could not keep the edge from his tone. Vanimórë's name raked his nerves to pain.

"He loves." Legolas reproved. "I would like to see him again, perhaps he could come for a time. I do not like that he is in these great cities of Men. He must feel as if he is shut in a cage. But wherever he is, Vanimórë would always protect him."

"No doubt he would," Maglor admitted. "After all, I saw what he did when he killed Elgalad. Perhaps after this matter is dealt with..." If Elgalad came here, he hoped it would be alone. If Vanimórë came privily to New Ciuviénen, Maglor did not wish to know. Elgalad was a dear soul, but Maglor thought he must be blind with love, and know nothing of what his lord was capable of.

Legolas walked to the window. "I feel as if I am living in the past, in a legend. I saw what might have been through Glorfindel and Istelion, yet to be here still..."

Ecthelion said gently, bitterly, "We lived, we were doomed – we died." He looked at Maglor. "Most of us."

"You did more than that," Legolas shook his head slightly. "A flame too bright..."

"Do not think thou dost not have thine own flame. We warred against the Dark Lord of our time and so didst thou." Maglor laid a hand on Legolas' shoulder. "I will see Maedhros and Fingon before we go, I think they would like to come here, ride out with thee, and Gil-galad, also."

"Be careful," Both Legolas and Ecthelion voiced the warning at the same moment and Maglor nodded, he did not say that the most peril to him lay in his own father.

Ecthelion went to Glorfindel's library to study maps, and Legolas stretched.  
"I think I will sleep a while, if I can, though I cannot help but wonder what is happening." He glanced south to where his lover was traveling toward Tanith. "Although it seems foolish to worry, I know. What could possibly happen?"

"We always worry about those we love," Maglor murmured. "He is fortunate to have thee. "

"And yet there is something he is not telling me. He can move in the ways the Valar move, yet he does not choose to. When I asked him, he said there were matters he needed to think on, and discuss with Vanimórë. Yet he could have done that here. Did he say anything to you?"

"No, but I also wondered why he did not go straight there." _ Unless he is to do something he knows would concern us and does not wish to be here. My father can read any-one, even a Vala. _  
But he did not say this aloud.  
"He has his reasons. Come." He walked up the sweeping marble stairs, feeling the tenseness of muscle under his fingers. "shall I stay with thee?"

Legolas looked around and inclined his head, smiling.  
"Glorfindel always said you were kind. I feel...Men would call it... haunted. And yes, thy father did startle me. I am not always comfortable speaking of this with Ecthelion, do you understand?"

"Yes. I know that feeling well, and I understand," Maglor nodded. "And know it has been awkward for thee." He paused at the top of the steps. "Remember, my father will not lay a hand on thee...unless it was what thou didst wish. His voice, his presence, yes, those he will touch thee with. And I have not been kind, I have blood on my hands, and I violated an innocent woman..."

"Who forgave you." Legolas opened the double doors to the apartments he shared with Glorfindel.

"It does not negate my actions."

"You have paid for your actions a thousandfold." Legolas began to undress. Maglor gently loosed the intricate braids of royalty and drew a comb through the long, fair mane. He could himself admire the beauty which roused Glorfindel, as Legolas stood naked before slipping into the great bed with it's coverlets of gold and leaf-green, suns and beech leaves intertwined. It troubled him as he offed and folded his own garments, but he did feel haunted this night. Yes, that word fit well. The situation could tempt him, but Legolas trusted him, Glorfindel trusted him and his own hungers were too dark to touch the golden passion which had been forged between those two. He intertwined his fingers with the prince's, felt Legolas' breathing slow, and despite himself, he too drifted into sleep.  
In the dark before dawn, he woke to find Legolas curled naturally against him, and wrapped his arm about the hard stomach drowsily, thinking, before he slept again, that he had never known this closeness. And his thoughts reached to Glorfindel, far away, wondering what lay in Tanith that was so imperative that it needed his personal attention.

_I would have thee trust me, as I trust thee,_ came the answer.~

~~~

Curse it, where had old Gejina gone to drop her foal?  
The sturdy beast he rode shook his head as if vouchsafing a reply, and snorted.  
Kai sighed inaudibly and squeezed with his thighs and Mjak started forward. The night was unusually windless for this region, and the stars crowned the great mountain range in the east with blue-white jewels. Usually the youth enjoyed this duty. He loved the horses, the pride of the tribe, but Gejina was a vexatious creature at times; every year she found somewhere to drop her spring foal which it took him all night to find. Sometimes he believed that the canny old mare was deliberately proving to him that she knew the land better than he did.

Here, the flatter basin between the mountains and the river rose and became broken. There were more trees, unexpected canyons, woods, and water. It was beautiful, but the worse place for straying horses. They ranged here in this season, however, for the grazing was more lush. There were more dangers also, black bears from the mountains, wolves, and sometimes great cats followed the scent of the herd. But Mjak seemed to know where he was going and Kai let him have his head, wishing there were more moon to give light. It was waxing, it's edge darkened like the worn edges about an old coin, and wisps of cloud, so high up that they moved with streams of air which spurned the earth, drifted like a veil across it.

Mjak tossed his head as he breasted a small rise, which opened before Kai to a wider space. He heard the foam of water, saw trees grouping black, grass grey in the night. There was an odd light here, diffused, and strange, and his hand, without thought, slipped to his knife. He sought for a fire, but there was none. The radiance reminded him of the luminescence surrounding the moon or the brightest stars. It showed through the trees, perhaps indeed the moon, reflecting from the river.  
He dismounted, and the gelding followed him without being lead. His calmness was comforting; whatever was here was not alarming him. Kai trusted the instincts of horses more then men, sometimes.

The trees parted. Kai saw the glint of water, but the source of the light did not come from that. With a blank astonishment the youth saw that there were figures here, people and he could see them because they..._shone in the dark._

There were three of them. And here also was Gejina, he recognized her wicker of recognition as she scented him. She was proud for she had just given birth and her strong tongue rasped over the damp coat of the newborn foal, encouraging blood-flow. Usually it was a sight Kai greeted with a flush of pleasure, but now he was disturbed.  
One of the men crossed to the stream and scrubbed his hands. Kai saw black hair against white skin. The man was tall, intimidatingly so, as he straightened. A voice spoke from behind him, and Kai whirled, his knife flashing out. His forearm was caught, held in a grip which intimated it could crush bone. He looked up to see a face crowned by black locks, beautiful in the way that ice is beautiful, that fire is beautiful. It was illuminated by that strange radiance. Under brows which were drawn as sleek as brush-strokes, winging upward, great eyes ..._ burned _ like the sun splintering on polished silver.  
Kai's mouth dried completely. Another voice, just as alien, as sonorous, said something close by. There were echoes in it, like music. A tall figure stepped closer. His face was very much the same, if one looked beyond the glamor of it, and they exchanged more supple, incomprehensible words.

_ Demons ! Oh Merciful Mother ! _ Kai prayed furiously. His knife-arm was suddenly free, and he held it before him expertly, falling into a defensive stance.

''Demons?'' The word he had thought was repeated back to him in his own language, and, panicked, he lunged – and found himself propelled through the air. He saved himself with a roll perfected from childhood from horseback, and came up.

All four demons stood there now, he saw the wink of rich threads, leather worked supple as cloth, the harsher glitter of gems.

''Peace.'' The word, in Kai's tongue, came after a moment, strangely accented, but clear. Two hands, gleaming with gold and jewels rose in a slow gesture. Then one pointed to the mare, who disdained to notice anything but her newborn.

''The mare...the birth was difficult. We found her, and drew the foal forth.'' Again, the precise enunciation, some-one speaking a language which was new to them. There was a harp, somewhere, threading through it, Kai thought, with a dislocating sense that he was dreaming.

Gejina snorted softly, a pleased, satisfied sound, as her newest offspring nudged the swollen milk teats and began to suckle hungrily. Mjak answered with a soft grumble, seemingly directed both at her and Kai, before he dropped his head to tear at the soft grass.

''Who are you?'' Kai found a voice somewhere, it was high, as if it had not yet broken.

The creature before him seemed to consider. ''We are Elves."

''Demons?'' Kai whispered.

''No, not demons. Elves.'' It was another who spoke. This ones light was a fierce, hot, live thing. _Eyes of fire, _ Kai thought.

''Come.'' He tilted his head.

''Go well,'' the other said and turned. Their backs were to the youth, he could have leaped, struck, but he was held motionless by the encounter, by pure strangeness. They walked away, their glow receding and Kai heard, after a moment, the jingle of harness which indicated they had horses somewhere. His muscles unfroze and he scrambled up the thrust of rock, balanced himself.

The horses and riders were a little below; great, proud creatures the mounts, somehow matching those astride them, their gait like honey, like rolling mist, and then they were gone into the broken land.

_ West...they head west... _ Kai swallowed, looking up, marking the stars, the solitary great pine which had rooted itself alone here and which he knew well._ West into the mountains? _ he returned his knife to its housing, and leaped down, to walk to Gijana and her foal.

~~~

''He was frightened.''

''He has never seen Eldar before. If this is Far Cathaia there are few people here.'' Fëanor shot a gleaming smile, side-wise, to Fingolfin.

''And yet it _is_ peopled.''

''Barely. Scarcely.'' The wide shoulders shrugged.

''We were not brought back to wrest lands from Men!'' Fingolfin hissed.

''Have we not been Kings?" Fëanor demanded. "Dost thou not desire lands of thine own?''

''I was made a king by thy death and by Maedhros' abdication before all the Noldor. Thou shouldst not have died leaving others to carry thy burden !'' The words flashed in the night air, hard with memory, with loss.

''Well, forgive me, dear brother, I will truly _ try _ not to die this time,'' Fëanor responded with irony.

_ I grieved. I grieved alone and in silence, for thee, for all that brilliance and power and beauty wasted, gone from the world, from me. I followed thee, knowing thou hadst betrayed us all, I would have followed thee into the depths of Angband itself. When I faced Morgoth, I knew thou wouldst have done so. My last thought was of thee! _

Fëanor drew his mount to a stop. ''Ride on,'' he said to Maglor and Caranthir. ''Make camp, heat some wine.''  
The brothers nodded, the soft hoof-beats fading into stillness.

Fëanor reached out a gauntleted hand to Fingolfin. ''I will say again, that I was a little...mad then, Nolofinwë.''

''Nothing has changed.'' The remark brought a soft laugh from Fëanor.

''We are where we always should have been. No longer enclosed by the jealous Valar, living on Middle earth. Why should we hide, we could glorify this world Eru made for us !''

Fingolfin, who had known and loved the Edain, shook his head.  
''Not only for us,'' he corrected, even while the burn of his half brothers touch insinuated itself through him like the pour of running fire – as it always did, as it always would.

''For the strongest. Is that not always the way of it, among Men? '

''Yes,'' the word was reluctant. ''But no kingdom should be founded on blood. That was never our way.''

''This is a different Age, another world. It will fall into the hands of Men only, if we permit it.''

''It is so fated.''

Fëanor smiled. ''I will make my own Fate.''

''And then we will indeed be what that child called us: _demons !_'' Fingolfin pulled back.

''Thou dost wish to be a King again, not so? Say not that thou art without ambition.'' Fëanor laughed into his half-brother's face, reaffirmed his grip and brought his horse up, flank to flank with the other. The kiss they shared broke into wildfire and their auras blazed with it, before Fingolfin uttered a rebuttal and broke free.

"I will lead and thou shalt follow?"

"That was long ago. I will not follow this in any war against innocent people who just happen to inhabit a land thou wouldst rule !"

"Our kings...they have all died badly," Fëanor said almost inaudibly. "Yet they were mighty, and deserve their own lands."

''Glorfindel did not bring us back to be conquers, to rule over Men. I did not do that, my son did not, the Edain had their own lordships and fiefdoms. It is not well for Elves and Men to mingle.''

''I spoke not of that. But they would believe themselves uncontested masters of Arda! And it is time they remembered that they are not the only children of the One!''

''Fëanor.''

''_What?_''

''First do as Finrod did,'' Fingolfin suggested.

''And that is?''

''Talk to them. Thou canst move the seas with thy eloquence when thou dost choose._ Talk._''

"Oh," Fëanor grinned then. "_Talk._ I can do that, yes. Perhaps thou shouldst be with me though, to ensure I say the right things."

~~~

The Ahar were semi nomadic, moving with their herd from summer to winter camp. In the spring they moved closer to the foothills of the mountains, gathered plants for the dyes they used in their weaving, and herbs for unguents and poultices. In mid-autumn, when the snows began to paint the peaks and finger down the slopes and the winds blew cold, they moved further east, toward the river. This was an ancient settlement, for there were hot springs nearby and precious salt deposits, and though the steam from the springs battled with the icy airs and formed dense fogs, snow rarely settled.  
The guards about the summer camp, alerted by the swift gallop of horses hooves, turned out. Ciadu, their chief and the father of Kai, rose from his slumber.  
''What is it?'' his wife asked.

''Bears perhaps, I know not, light the lamp.'' He threw a robe over his shoulders, and pushed aside the woven hanging of the great tent.

Mjak's underbelly was tagged with sweat and Kai slapped his neck in a reflexive gesture of apology even as he pushed through to his father.

''There are demons, come down from the mountains!''

The herd was untouched. All were accounted for in the morning, which lifted some worry from Ciadu as he gathered his counselors and warriors about him. The Ahar were nominally under the lordship of the Son of Heaven, Emperor of Cathaia, but they maintained the autonomy they ever had, and saw to their own affairs. Once a year they would take their horses to the great Market in Serun, but never had they called on the Emperor for aid. The nomad tribes kept to themselves, following an existence as old as Man itself. A proud and independent people, they looked after their own, and dealt with any threat swiftly. Sometimes lawless bands of men would try and steal horses, or in bad winters wolf, bear or wolverine would attack the herds, but these dangers were part of life for them.  
Demons however...  
Kai was an intelligent young man, who had noticed more than he initially remembered and sipping the fiery drink his sister poured for him, he held the gathered people as a bard might, relating what he had seen.

''They do not sound like demons,'' offered Dijen, an older counselor, long grey hair tied back from a face weathered by fifty years of sun and wind. ''Men out of the west maybe, they are tall and have white skin.''

''Not like this I wager, and not eyes like that, like jewels of fire ! They _shone!" _

Ciadu looked cynical. ''Did you take any _ashak _ with you, my son?'' He nodded to the clear, intoxicating liquid in the bowl Kai held.

''No! You know I do not, I knew Gejina would foal this night. In fact I was concerned about her. That is strange...'' His voice trailed off.

''what is strange?" his father asked. "I think we need no more strangeness !''

''They said she had trouble dropping the foal, and they helped her.''

''She is well, and the foal also, and they did not steal them. Nor any of the others.''

Kai shook his head. ''They would not have. I saw the horses they rode.'' For a moment the awe in his eyes was replaced by the true horse-lover's appreciation for a beautiful creature. ''Father, they were superb ! Tall and graceful, deep through the chest, quarters which could clear the river in one leap, necks arched like an Emperor's.''

''Interesting...'' The Chief exchanged looks with his counselors. "So they were dressed like a Loishan concubine, glowed, had eyes of fire, voices like music, rode magnificent horses, and helped old Gejina foal. Strange demons, son, and you said you attacked them and they did not return it in kind.''

A red glow spread through the young man. ''No.''

''But they were armed?''

''Yes, swords, with jewels in the hilts, I saw them shining.'' Kai sipped more ashak. ''I marked where they were, and they must have left a trail to follow.''

''Unless they truly _were _ demons,'' Lai Mi grinned. ''Demons would leave no trace.'' At the younger man's furious expression he winked. Known as the best rider, the finest warrior and tracker in the tribe, Lai Mi was respected and honored; all listened as he spoke.  
''If they were men, I could find their tracks.'' he answered the Chieftain's unspoken question.

There was a thoughtful silence. ''What do you say?'' Ciadu addressed his counselors. ''If there are people in the mountains, perhaps having come over them, it is of interest. If they are not unfriendly, and have wealth and good horses and are looking for somewhere to settle, this may be good for us.''  
Except by inter-tribal marriage, no-one could become part of a tribe, nor take the ancient lands, but others could be neighbors, and people to trade with. The Ahar were fierce warriors, but not savage, indeed they were an old people with intricate laws which few outsiders could familiarize themselves with.

There was a swift agreement. Lai Mi chose those who would go with him and Kai, of course, would accompany them.  
''You are young for this,'' his father said. ''But you are skilled and fast and usually have some common sense.'' He nodded to the tracker, a look with agreed, without vocalization, that the youth would be watched, but not shamed by overt cossetting. They would leave at noon.

~~~

Maglor tossed a pine-cone into the fire, watched it flare. It burned with a clean, resinous scent. His thoughts wove up with the smoke: Tindómion, far away and Sauron's son.

He had tried shut the memories of Vanimórë behind doors of reforged steel. Since Glorfindel had left for the south, they leaped back like a predator. By the time Vanimórë had freed him, there was no will to die, only the reborn fire, the hate, and the memory of what had blown on his disintegrating soul and flamed it to such heat...

_Beautiful Darkness. _

Whether Gorthaur had named Vanimórë that in mockery or not, it was apt. It was the darkness of sumptuous velvet, furred with flame. It was in all of them. It was the other side of the fire which burned in them.

_ He is of us, part of us, the part which we fear, which should not be unleashed...except in my father. He knows – and he understands; he does not fear the burning....Both touched me, both taught me to need, to want, and I can never be free of it – or of them._


	49. We Must Trust...

(Written by Anwyn)

  
The low thrum of life emanated from the gardens about her: the soft peeping of small colorful birds and the low drone of insects. It should have been soothing, for the gardens were beautiful, a strange contrast to Anwyn’s perception that Tanith was a city that rotted from the palace outward.  
She remembered her mother describing the many flowers and plants that grew in Ithilien. Both her voice and hands told a tale as she described them, knowing the healing properties of so many. Anwyn felt a stab of sadness, for surely her mother knew by now that her eldest daughter had vanished. She closed her eyes, marshaling her strength, for too much already hung heavy upon her heart.  
A shift in the air, a faint, cool scent caused her to turn quickly, and saw Elgalad approaching. The woman plying the fan slunk back slightly as though she wished to vanish, and the guards stiffened. It occurred to Anwyn that many acted nervously in the presence of the Elves.

It was known to her from the slaves whispers that Elgalad had ridden out with Vanimórë and the Emir the previous evening, and she had hoped that by the time they returned she would have come to terms with herself. Through her burning sense of shame, she forced herself to raise her eyes to meet Elgalad's, and saw something there that struck a chord within her. When he spoke, she flinched at being addressed as _Lady_ by one she considered a friend. It always seemed too formal, impersonal. She interpreted this title as Elgalad being angry with her, but a more sensible part of her she could not recall seeing him angered with her ever before.

“I am well, thank you,” she replied, rather stiffly so as not to arouse suspicion. At Elgalad’s words she felt an upsurge of emotions, and strangely, amongst them was the desire to laugh aloud. It seemed that they _ both _ wished to shoulder the burden of guilt, though they had truly done naught!

Though a small gasp did escape her lips, this was the only audible sound she made as she threw herself forward, wrapping her arms tightly around the Elf. It was a tremendously foolish action, she knew, but her desire to reassure him had overpowered her better judgment. Her embrace had to convey what she could not form into words: that she was not angry with Elgalad, and she could certainly not hate him! She felt some of the sadness she had carried dissipating.  
“I am sorry,” she whispered, and meant it, before drawing away, her gaze flicking toward the guards, openly defiant. She knew that what she had done would be considered unbecoming behavior for a future queen, but she had wished to bridge whatever rift had placed itself between herself and the Elf.  
She cared little for this land and even less for its laws, but was realizing more and more that not all here were steeped in the same darkness that seemed to perpetually cling to the Emir. Many were cowed by fear.

Composing herself, she sought words for the thoughts that tossed about in her. Elgalad had spoken truly that must trust in each in other, and she trusted both he and Vanimórë completely.  
She smiled at Elgalad warmly. It was foolish to feel protective of one who was so many years elder but Elgalad seemed so innocent that she often forgot this fact.

Anwyn was glad too, of the sense of wholesomeness Elgalad's touch carried. The Emir's presence evoked only sick loathing. She would far rather touch a venomous snake than he. She had never known the depths of such hate, and it was almost frightening, for she knew it could consume completely. She was not as a metal that could be softened by the trial of fire and remade. It would bring dishonor upon herself and all of her kin should she allow that madman to break her spirit, or drive her mad.

_ You have helped me, indeed, Elgalad. _ Anwyn managed at last._ In more ways than you can ever know. And I do still trust you. _ ~

 

~~~  



	50. It Will Be Over...

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
Elgalad received Anwyn into his arms with surprise and relief. For a moment he held her close, that she might know she was not alone. Elphir was in the same city, but could have been a thousand leagues away. Elgalad could at least be close to Vanimórë, Anwyn did not have that comfort. Affection was not always allied to desire, which was hotter, wilder, but love and all that sprang from it, was the root of what he was.

_ Be careful. _ Vanimórë's voice was in his mind, but Anwyn had already drawn back. The weight of the guards stares fell heavily on her, yet they did nothing. Of course not. She was untouchable save by the emir, elevated already by his use of her as much as his plans to crown her queen. Elgalad, feeling lighter of heart, for her embrace, gestured to a bench.  
''Wilt thou sit w-with me?'' he asked quietly not wanting to return to the opulent enclosure of his rooms yet, and sure that she felt the same. Gently, his fingers closed about hers and they walked to the stone seat under its crown of roses. From a safe distance Aiana watched, and Elgalad lifted a hand, beckoned her to come closer. Zochana and Cartha let her pass and, Anwyn motioned for her to sit under the shade. She glanced at Elgalad curiously.  
_ Her young brother was killed by the one I slew, _ he told her and she nodded gravely. It would be pleasant to think that as queen Anwyn could change such vileness, but in Tanith the corruption ran too deep. Taraluk, and the thing that used him, both must be destroyed.

~~~

The moon waxed round in the sky before it was milled again to a thin crescent, and then, on the next dark, another ship put forth.

Escorted to his chamber after Taraluk had spent himself, Vanimórë tried to bend his mind to the isle across the sea. Watching him, in the loincloth of gold chains Cartha marveled at his bearing; he walked as if he were striding out into the arena. Down the back of his long legs gleamed a trickle of blood-tinted essence, yet he moved as if unashamed, unconcerned. Did Elves feel no pain? Each day he was in the training ground, each night he attended the emir. Cartha believed he could have snapped Taraluk's neck like a dry twig, an opinion shared by most of those who had seen him in action. The more cynical decided that this new favorite had maneuvered himself into just the position he wanted  
_ ''Bent over and rooted." _ some added under their breaths. He meant to hold his place for very long time, this faction believed. Certainly Taraluk seemed as fascinated with him now as he had been the first time he had him. Nothtar, watching from his cold and distant inner landscape, could almost have congratulated Vanimórë. He looked at the emir as if all he could think of was sex. But Nothtar also noticed that when he was away from the ruler, he snapped wholly from that demeanor into what was surely his natural self. Oh, he enacted the part of concubine well, but it _ was _ an act. Astonishing that he could keep it up so long, the Spy-master mused. And much of it, he was certain, was done to focus Taraluk's attention on himself so as to protect his fair Elf and the woman. Well, once the Northblood was queen, the emir would set on her like a ravenous lion until she got with child. Which she would not, and Taraluk would have no use for a barren queen. Vanimórë was not the only one who suspected Taraluk could not father children, however. He was potent enough in the act, but his juices never seemed to plant seed since Khanad's birth. Such proof of his inadequacies was too dangerous to be known, and so at times, Nothtar arranged for the emir's women to sleep with other men, strong slaves who then made up the cargo of the next Black Ship. The children would never amount to anything, that became more obvious as the years passed. Taraluk dreamed of undying life. He did not mean to pass his throne to an heir.

The new favorite, who would not die of old age, who knew so much, who could lead armies...he was the true danger to Tanith and to Nothtar. He must be disposed of. And from what he and his intelligencers observed, Nothtar thought he saw the way to sweep this game board clean of both Elves.

Vanimórë paused outside his guarded door as the heavy bar was lifted and stepped in.

_ Screaming terror...._ And then nothing, his mind was swallowed by blackness.

And tomorrow night, She would come again.

Elgalad was waiting for him.  
On a table a _ Tar _ game had been in progress, a game of journeys and alliances, battle, peace, trade. The board was beautifully coloured, representing lands and cities, rivers and seas. Vanimórë had first seen it played Ages ago; its subtle, convoluted moves hailed from Elven minds who had brought the game to Númenor. Elgalad enjoyed it, and had been trying to teach the slave girl he had apparently taken under his wing. When Elgalad had asked if he could request Aiana serve them, Vanimórë said one did not ask, in this place, one simply ordered.

''I d-do not wish to order h-her,'' Elgalad had said. He would always find some wounded bird to take care of, Vanimórë thought tenderly. Now Aiana slept in a small alcove off the main room. He saw her still shape there, felt her mind drifting in dream.

He unloosed the loincloth, let it fall in a musical whisper of metal and stepped into the bath, where perfumed soap wash away the feel and scent of Taraluk. Massaging him, Elgalad saw the indentations of teeth on the hard buttocks, the wide shoulders, the imprint of clinging fingers, the mark of heavy rings gouged red into the white flesh. He choked back the anguish which clogged in his throat like sour wine and he lowered his head, kissed the marks as if he could overlay them with love.

_ It comes closer._

What does, my lord? The Games?

Everything, Meluion.

The Darkness. The time for him to step from whatever light he had created for himself, from Elgalad who _was_ his light, and go to a place where there was...nothing...

He turned, swept a soft towel over his loins and drew Elgalad down, the heavy silver hair washed over him, and Elgalad tucked his face into Vanimórë's throat. There was the flutter of long lashes, a sigh against his skin. His heartbeat increased, the arousal that he could not hide was a sweet and terrible torment.

_ And then? _

_And then, beloved, it is **my time.** _

He sensed the trust, unwavering, absolute, as his mind ranged out.

The island defeated him. That would come. He turned his thoughts from it, feeling Tanith, feeling the Harad, feeling Arda. The roar of the sun, now shining on another part of the world, was a storm of energy, with the power of the stars singing more faintly. Life, all sentient in some way, chorused like cicadas, almost overwhelming until one learned to shirr oneself from it, create a space of aloneness.

Thoughts winked like fireflies on the edge of a meadow, some loud with emotion, some barely perceptible. Others were beacons. Glorfindel, not so far away now, was Anor rising and that one, over deserts and mountains, was Fëanor's blazing starfire. To Vanimórë, the Noldor in their hidden realm burned like torches in the bowl of the night.  
He sifted thoughts as a man sifts river sands for chips of gold and his lips curled a little in amusement.

_ Fëanor...I did not think thou couldst confine thyself forever to New Cuiviénen. _

He touched the fear and curiosity in the mind of the youth who had come upon the Elves, wondering where that would lead. He felt Fingolfin, steely, proud, saw the bewitchment in his soul, which his half brother had laid there so long ago. He felt Caranthir, high of temper, unexpectedly deep with care and affection, he felt Maglor...

He laughed inwardly, luxuriously joining him in memory. What Maglor did not see – or refused to admit – was the worship Vanimórë had lavished upon him. The Fëanorion could not know that it had been the first time Sauron's son had felt such passion, taken such pleasure in his own body and that of his bedmate. Vanimórë had used that time when he was supposed to be healing Maglor preparatory to taking him to Númenor to the full. It was ironic, he thought, that he should come to know sexual ecstasy in Barad-dûr. Maglor's re-awoken fire was his own; both held the white flame of the Noldor that had burned so fiercely in a place of pain and darkness, the very center of Sauron's power. It was, in and of itself, an act of defiance.  
He had been the pleasure-giver not the recipient. Never, until Glorfindel, had he willingly allowed any to master him. But the passion between he and Maglor had been equal, mithril clashing against mithril. And he was not the only one who had reveled in it.

_ Thou didst not see that I needed thee as much as thou didst need what I gave thee._

He pulled free, a smile still curling his mouth, searching for Elphir, who day by day threw himself into his training as if it were an enemy to be attacked, to Khanad, wakeful, in his chambers, deep in morose thought.

_Prince. _

The answer was wary, confusion and anger melded together.

_ If thou shouldst attempt to send as assassin to kill me, or Elgalad, or the lady Anwyn, I will personally kick thine arse out to that damned island. This I vow. _

_ You are dangerous to me, any moment I expect to be taken away, to wait for the next Ship. I am surpassed now, overlooked. _

_ Thou wilt not die, Khanad. Possess thyself in patience. I know thou doth fear, and to good purpose. Taraluk may find he has no use for thee, but I am not he. He does not matter now. But I do, Khanad. ** I do. ** And tell Gthar to hobble himself or I will put him away until the time is right. He also is of use, to both thee and to me. _

The response was unclear, but contained many emotions. Words in the vein of: _Arrogant, twisted bastard...dare to touch Gthar...will tell the emir of your treachery ! _ spat forth from the Prince's mind.

_ Indeed, and thou may tell me all that the day after I win the Games. _

  
Elgalad pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

''Dost thou hurt, still?'' he whispered.

''It eases, Meluion,'' Vanimórë murmured, basking in a sweetness soft as flowers after rain, yet rooted in strength founded in unfathomable love. ''It is always easier with thee.''

_I wish this were over ! _

_ It will be over soon, I promise. It will all be over soon. _

And he had to face the darkness and overcome it, or he would be so changed that to him, in that emptiness, Elgalad himself would only be something to devour.~

~~~


	51. Night Thoughts

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ The flame of the lamp flickered as the oil slowly burned away into the late hours of the night. It was the only source of light in the room now, save for the pale moon-glow which filtered in through the ornately carved window-screens. Anwyn slept deeply, the silk coverlet drawn up to her shoulders, long unbound hair falling across her face. Her expression was peaceful, for when Anwyn dreamt she walked in other lands. Waking would come with a sense of confusion, as she was delivered once more into the world and the challenge she must face.

The days had become a little more bearable. She was now permitted, albeit accompanied, to walk in the gardens, and it was a welcome reprieve from the solitude of her chambers. Her walks has become a ritual, in this court of rituals, something that would have been unworthy of comment in in Rohan or Dol Amroth. Yet as time passed, even the gardens that bloomed in yet more brilliant colors as the days grew hotter, seemed to grow smaller.

Slaves, other than the guards, were another constant and unwanted presence. Her demands to be left alone were ignored and now she simply accepted them. It seemed that she was to be kept prepared should the Emir request her company, although, since the night of the death-match, she had not been summoned. She was relieved, but her brow would crease with concern as she imagined the reasons behind her being so blessedly ignored.  
Now that her body had healed itself from being so violently taken, her mind was likewise able to shed itself of some of the shame that had burdened her for so long. But she could not forget, and she fought not to spend each day in fear that she would be summoned to the opulent chambers of the man who loved to feel another's pain.

Anwyn slept that night unaware of the second presence in her chambers. The spies who habitually watched her had been ordered from their posts for a time while Nothtar observed her, thoughts circulating in his mind.

The spy-master had not come to his position of power easily. It had been earned over many years, coming into the emir's service as a very young man, but an unusually clever one, he had watched and listened, and passed on what he heard and saw to those who might find such information useful. Thirty-five years later he ran the enormous intelligence service which was the envy of other southern kingdoms. His memory for remembering seemingly trivial detail was phenomenal, and he could read people as if they were an open scroll, finding weaknesses as a warrior in the arena found the chinks in his opponents armor.  
Which thoughts lead back to the sleeping woman. He was uncertain of her weaknesses as yet, save for her dread of rape by Taraluk, which all his women felt, and while the dark Elf held the Emir's attention, she was safe.

Fear ruled this land. Fear underpinned the throne itself: the fear of a parent losing a child to the darkness of the night, fear for oneself, from the lowest to the highest-born. Like the mist about the Isle, fear enshrouded Tanith, but so far Nothtar did not sense it in the woman, although that was but a matter of time. In comparison to the two Elves she would prove easy to dispose of. He need not even arrange her death; night after night the emir would bestow his precious gift of seed on his new queen and she would never round with his child. Since Taraluk would lay the blame of barrenness on her, it would be only a matter of time before she would make one of the tribute to the terrible Lady of the Isle. If Nothtar had his wish she would have already been on the island. She served no purpose save Taraluk's growing self aggrandizement, his certainty she bore Númenorean blood and would prove fecund.  
Nothtar had killed women before, and had ordered countless innocents herded like goats onto the Black Ship, yet he hesitated. He wanted all three of the strange visitors who had insinuated themselves into the highest echelons of Tanith to be dealt with together.

Reaching out curiously, Nothtar brushed his fingers against the woman’s warm cheek. Even in sleep she flinched away from the touch, murmuring something unintelligible, before subsiding back into slumber. Such displays would inflame the Emir, but his master was so enthralled by the cursed dark Elf, he had ignored the woman. But that would change when she was crowned...

The running of the kingdom was more in Nothtar's hands now than the Emir's, and he was confident that he could organize the deaths of the woman and the Elves with no blame attaching to him. ~

~~~


	52. She Is Nothing

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

Elgalad felt the tension in Vanimórë's hard body, yet the hand which caressed him gently transmitted love, and reassurance.

_Does he need me? _ His eyes open, Elgalad searched the dimness as if for answers.

During the past weeks the little time they had alone together were after the emir had spent himself with sex. Vanimórë would return with Taraluk's scent on him, which he washed away, even as Elgalad rinsed it from the long raven hair. In the day, he would be in the training grounds. Elgalad went with him, and when he learned what Vanimórë wanted him to do, he had been dubious, but he welcomed the feel of the bow in his hands. It had been brought from the inn where they had stayed, he was told. The silky yew wood was familiar under his fingers, which then ran down the string, and he unconsciously lifted a hand to his long hair which Elves habitually used for their bow-strings.

''I m-must string it afresh.''

He sat down in the block of shade left at the corner of the training ground, not noticing the soldiers who gathered as he plucked at the new string and fastened it about the notch.  
When he rose, he cast Vanimórë a startled look.

''We will need archers.''

Round targets were set out, the soldiers already stringing their own bows. They were of horn, not as long as the one Elgalad bore, and Vanimórë brought him one over to look at.

''It is w-well made,'' he said. ''But these will n-not have as long a range, my lord.''

''We will make them larger, but remember, not all men are tall, they should have bows suited to their height or they become unwieldy.''

''I know.'' Elgalad used a larger bow now then he had when first coming to Mirkwood, with a stronger draw weight.

''Shoot, my dear'' there was a gleam in Vanimórë's eyes, ''I like to see thee.''

''Can they m-move the target b-back, my l-lord?'' Elgalad murmured, with a flush and involuntary smile.

Nodding, Vanimórë turned, snapped out an order, and two men trotted backward with the target, pausing, waved on, until they were at the furthest end of the grounds. From the sidelines, Zochana observed, holding his own weapon. He enjoyed archery, and the dark Elf's remarks about more archers in the army had gone through the city. Although his position was a high-ranking one, the man longed to get out of the strangling intrigue and fear of the palace and return to the legion he had joined as a youth.

He watched interestedly as the fair Elf stepped out, noting that his bow was longer, the arrows of green and black fletching, were in proportion to it's height. The Elf reached back to his quiver and there was a hiss, followed by another and another as shafts left the string quicker than the eyes could follow. When the sound ceased, the target sprouted arrows like a porcupines back, so closely grouped that there was no space between the shafts.

Zochana hissed between his teeth, not only seeing the precision, but imagining what those arrows could do; it was a myth that arrows could not penetrate armor, and some could be tipped so that they were impossible to remove without killing or causing even more damage.

As they walked to the target, Vanimórë smiled into Elgalad's mind.  
_Thou wouldst make Legolas proud, Meluion. I will need thee to be the teacher now. _

Elgalad felt uncertain, but he glowed with pleasure at the compliment as he placed his arrows back into their quiver.

''How long has he been shooting?'' Asked Zochana. ''A thousand years?''

''Almost exactly,'' Vanimórë responded, his sidelong glance heavy with amusement.

''Well, that is simply...unfair.'' The words were mock-plaintive and as the amusement spread to curve Vanimórë's mouth there was a ripple of laughter through the soldiers.

''Zochana, Ulandi, Melek, Adoi, and Ipenion.'' Vanimórë chose the men to come forward. He remembered names on an instant, thought Zochana, he seemed to recall every word spoken to him.

''May I try your bow...sir?'' It seemed both respectful and politic to address the Elf so. A shy smile touched the lush mouth, and Elgalad proferred the weapon. Zochana began to pull back the string, the sinews in his back and shoulders cording, and he grunted in surprise. The draw weight was stronger than anything he had touched, but unlike some less acute observers, he did not find it unbelievable that the fair Elf could use it. Although he was not quite as tall as Vanimórë, he over-topped all here and was all taut muscle. There was a fashion in Tanith among both Death-warriors and the soldiery to inflate their muscles with heavy and continuous training. This had been seen to an monstrous degree in Doralis, but the Elves were lean, their shoulders wide, yes, but not over-burled with muscle. They appeared more like the whippy, lithe men out of the East, who were honed and hard, slender and swift as cats.

''My bow w-was not so heavy when I began,'' Elgalad said. ''There are m-men in the north, near where I dwelt, who wield l-longbows. I will show thee.''

''Who trained you, if not your lord?'' A man inquired.

''The son of an Elf-king,'' Elgalad replied, wondering how Legolas lived and fared, away in the hidden haven. He missed his friend acutely.

A voice, which silenced the murmurs asked, ''May I?''

Khanad's fall from power had become more and more obvious. He was no longer summoned to his fathers chambers, or asked to meet with Nothtar. It was a shameful sight how the court, swayed by the fickle winds of their ruler's pleasure, blew against him, like watching a proud hawk mobbed by carrion crows. But the soldiers he – nominally – still commanded, respected him, even while their respect grew apace for the dark Elf. Only among the army could Khanad now find a genuine welcome.

Elgalad silently took the bow from Zochana and offered it. He watched as the young man nocked it and drew back, muscles swelled, but the stern set of Khanad's face showed no striving. The string wavered a little at fullest tension but the arrow flew, and struck the target, earning a cheer from those who watched.  
Elgalad's smile was warm. ''I would like to m-make thee a bow, P-Prince Khanad,'' he murmured.

''I thank you,'' Khanad replied, grimly. ''But I think I will need more than that.'' His eyes moved to where Vanimórë watched him, and saw the tall figure bow, a gesture laden with respect. Inwardly, he cursed. Gthar was silent and grim these days, saying little, but he too, feared. The Prince wondered that he had not deserted him, as others had, but that was an unfair thought. Gthar had ever been loyal. He would be loyal to the death, indeed, he might have to be.

_I am not thine enemy, _ came the clear, deep voice.

_ In Tanith, every-one is my enemy now._

~~~

  
Already warriors were beginning to arrive, by ship, by horse, on foot. From Bellakar they came, from the Slave Coast, the Lands of Spice, from realms and kingdoms which were as mysterious in the north as the Elf lands were to the peoples of the South. They came from the Sultanate of Raj, the Dominion of the Southern Dragon, the Thousand Cities which formed a prosperous necklace of wealth and trade along the coast. They came bearing their own fame, rumors of strength and speed, skill and courage, they came with one fixed purpose in mind: to win the Games and wealth beyond imagination.

Others came in their shadow: Men outside the law searching for rich pickings, some outcasts and wanted, driven by despair, bearing old, sharp swords and travel-worn cloaks. Taverns and inns were packed to the roofs, the markets hummed like hives night and day, smithies rang to the sound of hammer on metal, and the traders counted their coin and were well pleased.

Vanimórë battled himself in those days. Though before Elgalad and others he was untroubled, his mind was scourged by detestation of what he did, even as his body submitted to the emir's demands. This was a true test of will, for the desire to reduce Taraluk to a heap of bones was strong enough to send tremors through him.  
He loathed the feeling of the man inside him, his touch, his lewd laughter and orders, the pain which was fresh each time and chafed and ached until soothed by unguents and his own swift healing. He held Elgalad like a talisman against the hate and abhorrence, something clean and loving, he remembered Glorfindel, and the erotic, hating passion of Maglor. All of them formed a fetterlock about the violence in his soul which, if unleashed, would do nothing but harm.  
He was a whore again, a warrior again, but there would be an ending, and not in some far off time which he could not believe in, but soon... _soon._

Elgalad did not think his Lord slept or rested at all. He was uncertain if Powers needed such repose, but from the blood he saw on Vanimórë after his usage by the Emir, he knew there was pain. And bodies which were physical, no matter how strong the mind, must take their ease.  
Vanimórë could have told him that he had trained himself to sleep but little, for in his old life, he was too vulnerable in that state. But indeed he did rest at whiles, and in the dark hours before dawn, one night, when Elgalad saw the violet eyes blank, felt the relaxed breathing, he thanked the One and rose, carefully. He placed one soft kiss on Vanimórë's brow and lay down on a couch close by. He was afraid of being tempted, as he had before, but he watched the beautiful face for a long time before his own eyes unfocused and he dreamed.

And Vanimórë dreamed...

_ He walked some black desert, which stretched without limit all about him, and whispers paced him each step. And he knew them..._

_ **Thou couldst have the world....thou couldst have all. ** _

_I do not want it. _

**Thou wilt, one day, thou art Power, thou art of the highest blood.**

He saw Arda unfurl under his eyes, saw armies from horizon to horizon, banners of black and purple streaming above them, saw city after city, nation after nation encompassed by his rule, his will. Kings knelt at his feet, treasuries overflowed with the wealth of a world, everything he had... ** everything. **  
Glorfindel beckoned to him, Fëanor lay in ebon silk of hair and sheets waiting for him, Maglor beside him, Elgalad and Legolas danced for him, jeweled and eager as trained odalisques in his arms.  
He was God-Emperor, he ruled Elves, he ruled Men, he built ships and sailed across the Straits of the World and the Sea of the East to the lands there, conquered them...

And the light died in Elgalad's eyes, and a voice cried in the darkness as ambition and power grew in him, unassuagable. Gold and silk, velvet and marble, gem and precious metal...he touched them, the riches, the white flesh, the flowing hair, the jewels, and felt them crumble like dried lichen between his fingers. Dust blew in a dead wind...

He forced himself awake, hearing his own intake of breath.  
He was alone, and he raised himself on one arm, seeing Elgalad stretched upon a couch. The unwinking gleam of his eyes, the soft rise and fall of his breast showed sleep. He looked warm, inviting, too much so...always too much.

Something brushed across his chest and his eyes snapped up, startled.

Above him was a woman. Her hair was white as frost, brittle as dried hay, and her flesh was moist as a dank grave. As she straddled him he saw the mottled fur of tomb-mold, patches of shadow, speckling across the skin.

He felt her lower herself as if she were a jointed wooden doll posed by a child's hands, her hairless groin ground against his, seeking his arousal. The eyes were...nothing, like gaps cut in a death mask. Her head tilted birdlike on the long neck as if in question, a peculiar, disturbing movement. A sick-sweet reek, like the flowers growing in the poisoned meads of Imlad Morgul, emanated from her.

**Take me. Fill me. **

Ravenous hunger....

She seemed to suck what he was through the pores of his skin, her body lowered, her tongue tasting the skin of his throat as a snake tests the air.  
He was violently, shockingly repelled, but held himself motionless, his power walled up.

This was what he would face...he needed to _ know. _

He could not be roused, and she straightened, again making that bird-like gesture of inquiry and question. Vanimórë felt an upwelling of nausea at the wrongness of her, it was as if something used to wearing another shape had forced itself into this one and was not sure how to use it.

She turned, aiming that empty gaze at the sleeping Elgalad. He stirred as if she touched his dreams. The thing seemed to consider him, and as Vanimórë choked back Power which would have blown the walls from the room if she made any move toward Elgalad. She looked back at him and her body rippled. Silver shone in her hair, her great breasts shrank to nothing, the hips became narrow, her legs long and shapely but unmistakably male. It was Elgalad who bestrode him now, but his eyes were holes of pitch. He might have been a decaying corpse unearthed from a damp grave.

Vanimórë swallowed revulsion. He needed this..._ thing _ to find him useful – in _ any _ way, and no doubt the watchers behind the walls were stiff-kneed in terror, beholding this sight.

He overlaid the corpse-like mockery of Elgalad with the reality, everything that he loved, and ached to possess. He warmed the dead flesh with his vision, set pale crystals in the empty sockets of the eyes, smelled the sweet fragrance of the silken hair, lifted his hands to close around the flushed, warm skin over the lean hips, felt his length brush the tight aperture.

The creature forced herself down even as he drove himself up and she arched back, arms flung out, writhing, mouth agape. It was horror beyond measure to see something which should have been so beautiful made vile, a coupling with a corpse given unholy life. He felt as if what he entered was a trough of month old entrails, the opening into a charnel pit.

The hawthorn scent faded into decay as he released with a groan and the sham-Elgalad drew himself from him, changing, as it backed away, a blank rictus of a smile splitting the face.

_ She does not understand,_ came the thought, in the secret chamber of his mind. _ She understands...**nothing...** _

She melted into shadow and the rot-stench vanished with her.

Vanimórë slid from the bed, disgust building in his throat. He spat out the taste in the bathing chamber, and vomited violently.

_Oh, Eru. Oh, Hells. _ He closed his eyes, wiped his brow, then took a draught of wine, feeling it warm his stomach. An unwholesome dew misted his flesh, and he sank into the bath. He felt as if he had been forced to eat dead flesh, and braced his arms on the tiles, taking deep breaths. In many ways, it eclipsed his violations by Morgoth, by Sauron. They at least had had vitality, She had nothing, she was _Nothing..._

_In heartbeats, they will know: Nothtar, Enoch, the emir, and the news will spread like the plague she used to send. And none will dare touch me._

And that was all that mattered.

_I have to face that, destroy that. I swore to, and I must. I **will ! ** _

He dried himself, drew on breeches, boots, drank again, the wine slowly restoring some calmness. Returning to the bedchamber, he crossed to where Elgalad lay, and knelt beside him.

This _is my Elgalad Meluion. How dare that monstrosity take on his form! _  
But she had seen that he was not aroused by the one she wore, seen the ever-present desire for the Elf, and used it. And he had had to make himself take her by imagining it _ was _ Elgalad.

He realized that the grey eyes were focused on him, soft and bright.

''My Lord?''

Vanimórë sank his face into the cool hair, breathed in the odor of rain-washed greenness. His hold was so tight Elgalad was alarmed and pressed himself harder against him, feeling a thrumming tension all through the hard body.

_ My Lord? What is it? _

He was alive, strong, sweet, beautiful, loving. No-one could be Elgalad except Elgalad. No power of shape shifting could capture what he was, and that _Thing_ knew only hunger...  
He lay down on the couch, drew the silver head to rest against his, and drank the warmth, the reality into his bones.

_ Nothing, Meluion,_ he answered, truthfully, _ It is...Nothing. ~ _ **  
**


	53. A Bittersweet Taste Of Freedom

 

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ The next morning dawned bright and hot and Anwyn rose late after a restless night. She had awoken once with perspiration dotting her skin and her heart aflutter. She vaguely remembered a brush against her face, but she had been alone and so dismissed it as a nightmare, but her sleep had been sporadic after and she had drowsed late into the morning, which was unusual for her.

Dressed in light blue girded with silver, Anwyn departed for the gardens after eating a small meal. It had not escaped her attention that there were now four guards who fell into step behind the female slaves. They passed servants rushing about, frenzied as hared in the spring. For the last few days the whole palace had hummed like a beehive; the Games were nearing...as was her marriage to the emir.  
Her coming wedding was always in the forefront of her mind, but her resolve had not lessened in the least. She had no voice here, she would marry the emir, and she would become his queen, but it was a mockery, for she was already bound to Elphir. Once the sham of ceremony was over, then...yes, what then? She held on to Vanimórë's words of reassurance and the knowledge that her husband was in Tanith.

As she rounded the corridor, a familiar figure immediately came into view, and had she not been so set upon reaching the gardens she might have turned back. Nothtar bowed ever so slightly from the hip as she neared him. His expression was blank and she could not read from it whether the obeisance was one of respect or mockery. When she stopped deliberately and looked at him, with raised brows and, she knew, an arrogant expression, she stood nearly a hands width above him.

“My Queen in waiting,” he murmured and she felt a shiver of apprehension at his tone. The advisor had never spoken to her in this manner before, unless in the presence of Taraluk. Wariness unfurled within her.

“There are many that come to Tanith bringing great gifts for the most high one,” Nothtar drew nearer. “But tell me of what _you_ truly desire, and I shall see it shall be yours.”

Anwyn looked down at the man, a frown on her features, but said nothing. Nothtar waited a long moment for her to answer but at her continued silence, he snapped his fingers and a slave came forward.

The horse was built far more finely than she was accustomed to, though still strong-limbed with a proud, arched neck and the dished face distinctive of the breeds of this land. Nothtar watched her face as she examined it. The horse had been a gift to the emir from a prince of the Seven Dominions. Gifts poured in at the time of the Games: spices and silks from far lands, fine women and horses, exquisitely jewelry. Taraluk's dreams of empire were well known in the south, and he was feared, not because of his vices or cruelty, but because of the whispers that he was favored by some power that granted him unaging life.

Nothtar inwardly shook his head at the woman's expression. Caskets brimming with gems might have been placed at her feet, yet he knew that she would have stepped over them all to reach this animal. The horse snorted, tossing it's head. It wore a magnificent headstall of leather overlaid with gold-leaf and gems that glittered in the sunlight.

Anwyn strode forward past Nothtar and reached out a hand, palm turned upwards. For a moment the horse balked, then its sharp ears pricked forward at a soft word and it stretched forth it's neck, nuzzling her hand. A warm smile lit her features and it dawned upon Nothtar that this was the first time he had seen the woman smile.

“Does this gift please thee?” he pressed, as she ran a hand down the arched neck. The horse was calm now, pressing its dark muzzle against her shoulder.

“It does,” her reply was absent.

“A fine stallion. To be admired…yet not ridden. It shall sire many fine foals, do you not think?” To the man, horses were naught but a swift means of travel. Taraluk kept a few for hunting, but most were sent as breeding stock to the cavalry.  
Anwyn slowly turned back to him, arching a slender eyebrow.

“It is a _mare._ Can you not tell?” The scorn in her voice carried, and Nothtar turned to face the guards, his expression challenging though none dared openly display amusement at his ignorance.  
Slightly ruffled nonetheless, he turned back to where the woman stood, only to find that she was no longer there. His eyes flicked up to where she sat easily astride the horse. It had come as no challenge to her. She had taken a single step forward grasping a handful of the horse’s long mane just above the withers and hoisting herself up to the bare back.

“Lady, Come down from there, I...“ he paused.

“Command it?” Anwyn finished, leaning forward, hands resting upon the horse’s neck. “Will you command me to come down, Nothtar?”  
She knew the man dared not touch her, nor would any other under the service of emir.  
With a nod, as if he had answered, she gathered the reins into her hands.

“You might be harmed if you are not careful, Lady,” Nothtar tried again, through tight-clenched teeth.  
Anwyn’s laughter rang out.  
“I have known how to ride before the time I knew how to walk, So you may comfort in that it is not _I_ that shall be harmed.”  
Nothtar heard the underlying taunt, and cursed himself. This had been a foolish idea! He reached to grab at the reins, but under Anwyn's hands it took a step back beyond his reach and swung to the right, almost knocking him to the ground. It moved into a trot and then easily cleared a small hedge to land upon the grass beyond. Nothtar turned to the guards and hissed at them: “Bring her back, you gaping fools!”

There was something completely natural to be once more astride a horse, to feel the movement beneath her. Anwyn scarcely heard the shouts of the guards running behind her. To place a horse before her and expect her not to ride it would be akin to placing a fish in water and telling it not to swim. Why were they even pursuing her? The gardens were walled upon all sides.

As the path began to widen into a grove of fruit trees she urged the mare to a gallop and let the reins slide freely through her fingers, allowing the horse its head. It flowed sinuously through the trees and she let her body adapt to the motion, losing herself in the joy of this tiny taste of freedom, of what she once had known. All too quickly as the outer wall loomed high above them and she gathered the reins, drawing the mare gently in hand once more, trotting back to where Nothtar, his face red with anger and exertion stood panting. He was flanked now by several more guards who had come at his call. She slid from the horses back, landing lightly on the soft grass.

Nothtar's anger rolled out towards her in dark coils; she could feel it and perhaps the horse could also. It lowered its head, brushing against her back as though asking for protection. Anwyn lifted her chin, knowing she had been foolish. She was not in her own lands, but a place where the women were treated as chattels.

_ Ask me what I do desire once more _ she thought to herself. _ For I shall tell you now that it would be this horse to carry me through those gates beyond _

Too much was gathering now, as the games loomed, and during that time she would be away from the Palace, at the arena, allowing a greater chance that she might see Elphir in the crowds. It had been stupid of her to endanger her chances. If Nothtar were to report her willfulness to the emir, he might confine her to the palace.

“Return her to her rooms!” Nothtar snapped to the guards, who did not touch her but encircled her in such a way that she had no choice but to go with them. She understood that they merely did their duty, and she could not bring herself to feel anger toward them. Another had moved to take the horse, and it was with sadness Anwyn watched from the corner of the eye as it was lead away. It's head tossed once more as the guard grasped the reins too tightly, for it wished to have its head as it walked. One did not have to know horses to see this, but Anwyn understood; the overwhelming desire to be free had struck an all-too-familiar chord within her own heart.

~~~


	54. The Gathering Of The Tribute

(Spiced Wine)

 

~ Aiana almost fainted at what she witnessed in the Elves chambers. Blackness came down over her vision, she pushed herself as far into the into the corner of her alcove as she could, shivers like the onset of ague chasing cold and damp over her flesh. She was terrified to make a sound lest that ghoulish thing turn its head and see her. Her mind screamed like a madwoman's.

She had felt strangely protected with the Elves, in this palace where all were afraid, where there was no real protection. Whatever rumor might say, she knew they were not lovers in deed, although she was certain they did love one another. The black haired one was rarely there save at night, and she had seen him hold Elgalad, so dearly, so tightly, that her throat had pricked with tears.

Vanimórë was not embarrassed by her presence, he accepted it and her small services with courtesy, while Elgalad was effortlessly kind. But the tranquility of the fair Elf was, she felt, an facade, for his eyes were inward looking, filled with sorrow and anger. She thought at first it was jealousy, for all knew the emir enjoyed his new lover, but it was not so simple. The dark Elf seemed untouchable by either compassion or pity, but his actions when he was alone with Elgalad betrayed his need.

The Elves chambers seemed a place apart, their presence a bastion against what went on outside the rooms, the atmosphere which seemed to press down suffocatingly as the Great Games approached.

This night, she had risen to go and get food and fresh wine, as she often did, for she knew they rarely slept, and it was then, crossing the archway to the outer chamber, she had seen... seen

She knew after she ran from the room, that the guards opened for her. They always did now, for she served the Elves and might come and go, executing their orders. She fled, impelled by terror, down to the gardens, where she was sick to her stomach.

Pressing herself back against the wall, cold sweat dewing her brow, her thin garments clung to her shaking legs, she shook her head in denial. Something...dead...rotten had come into the chambers. She had seen it change it's foul form into a mockery of Elgalad, and Vanimórë had taken him.  
That was when her thoughts had scattered like birds in revulsion.

The Lady...

For a long time, the thing on the island had been referred to as 'She.' No-one remembered why. She had been here so long, was indivisible from Tanith. People Aiana knew had vanished; one day they might be walking the street, the next they were gone as if they had never existed. But all knew what happened to those who were never seen again. They were tribute to the Lady of the Isle, who could and had sent plague if she were denied or displeased.  
Plague. Aiana had smelled that in the room: corpses, corrupt and stinking, the stench of opened graves masked by overblown flowers.

When a voice spoke she almost screamed, clapping both hands to her mouth and stared up. It was too dark to discern a face, but she caught the flick of jewels and smelled a rich perfume. When the voice spoke again, this time she recognized it, and relief dropped her weakly to her knees.  
''Forgive me, sire.''

Usually Khanad would not notice a slave in distress. One learned not to. Many died, others vanished. One did not ask, but something of the girl's terror brushed him, it was so intense. Reaching down, he drew her to her feet.

''What has happened?'' he demanded in a whisper.

Aiana moaned, her teeth clattered in her mouth. Khanad felt her shiver under his hands and held her more firmly.  
''What has happened? I will not hurt you, but tell me.''

Aiana was incoherent, her words becoming blocked before they reached her throat, shudders worked their way through her and her gorge rose, she vomited again, and though the Prince allowed her to turn away, he did not release her.

'' What is going on by the Gods?'' Gthar hissed behind him.

''I do not know. Come, we go to my chambers.''

No-one questioned him. His father ignored him these days, but he was still the prince.

Once his doors were closed, he placed the girl into the bath without ceremony and removed her clothes. She seemed oblivious. Her pallor was more evident naked, her olive skin like tallow. Something had petrified her.

"I know you, do I not?" Gthar asked. "Sire, the Elves have lately taken her into their service."

''What did they do to you?" Khanad grasped her shoulders. "Were you sent to my father?"

Her head shook, and it seemed she could not stop the motion, her lips drew down like that of a mourner.  
"A w-w-woman," she choked. "A w-woman came there. To the Elves rooms."

"What?" Khanad heard Gthar draw in a breath, and drew the girl to him instinctively. Her flesh was was chill against his. "What woman?"

"A dead woman. She was dead ! Like a corpse..." She jerked the words out on each breath. "And she changed into Elgalad...And the favoured...he...he t-took her."

Aiana felt her legs give way and she fell against the prince. She felt him move, metal at her mouth, wine roared into her stomach. Gasping, she drank again.

Khanad's eyes met Gthar's.

"It cannot be."

"She saw it. You see how she is....and others will have seen it."

Khanad drew the girl from the pool, wrapped her in a towel, and felt the shivers ease, but her eyes still held the sick bruise of horror.

"They will come for her," Gthar stated. "The ones who saw will already be dead."

"Yes," the Prince said. "I know."

~~~

A scream shattered the quiet morning. Another followed it and another. Elgalad spun from his contemplation of the garden. Vanimórë, whom had again gone to the bath, emerged sleekly wet, scattering water.

''Who...?'' Elgalad began as Vanimórë disappeared into a towel and emerged in a flurry of damp hair. He said grimly:  
''Aiana.''

''I th-thought she w-was gone to b-bring food and wine,'' Elgalad exclaimed, anxiety spiking through his voice, turning to the door.

''No. Wait.''

''But...''

''Wait here. We can do nothing, yet.'' Vanimórë drew on breeches, stamped into boots, and shook back his hair.

''Nothing? But...''  
Vanimórë span round, catching his arms.

_She saw something she should not have. She told Khanad. They will have come to take both away._

Elgalad blanched.  
_ Thou didst say that they would be safe _

_ They are to be put on the next Black Ship at the time of the Games, until then they will be held unharmed. Meluion, trust me, they will not die. I promise thee. I swear it. But this must happen, I cannot stop it without revealing what I am. _

_ Would not the emir grant thee a favour? _ A flush stained Elgalad's cheeks. He felt base, as if he were asking Vanimórë to prostitute himself. He loathed the thought, detested Taraluk, felt sick inside to think of the madman using the one he loved. _ Forgive me..._

_ If I thought he would, I would beg him, but no, he would not grant me this favor. Not this. Not tribute._ Vanimórë met the beseeching, angry eyes with his own. _ Thou must trust me! _

_ Do not let them die. _

_ I have said I will not. _ His lips touched Elgalad's brow and then Vanimórë strode from the room.

Ten guards flanked the Prince and Aiana as they were taken from their rooms. It was Aiana who screamed, struggling, as she was pulled along, her sandals scrabbling for purchase on the marble. Khanad sought to aid her, break free but was closed in by armored bodies so tightly he was unable to move a muscle. His face was pale, stark.

''I will see my father !'' he shouted.

''This has been ordered, prince.'' It was Nothtar's voice, calm as oil.

''It is my right to see him!''

''You have no rights any longer.''

''I am Prince of Tanith,'' Khanad cried. ''I swear Nothtar, I will see you dead for this.''

The Spy Master sounded amused. ''If you say so, _prince_ Khanad.''

The dark eyes shifted past him and burned into fury.  
''You! _You! _ Gthar is dead because of you. You are the traitor, not I.''

Eyes turned as Vanimórë came into view. Nothtar's stare became fixed, his face blank. He had heard with a disbelief, the news that She had visited the favored in the night. It was unprecedented. It was disturbing and he knew not where it would lead but, as always, caution ruled him. He bowed.

_ Khanad. Thou must trust me. I will not see thee die. _

The Prince's mind could not form thoughts, but rage and fear blazed from it like heat from an opened kiln.

''Do not mistreat them, certain... people will not be pleased,'' he said to Nothtar. ''House them well, until the time comes.''

The sight of Vanimórë had brought back the terror of the previous night to Aiana, and she fell in a little boneless huddle. Her limp form was picked up and carried away, the clink of nailed sandals on marble faded, but the emotion lingered in the hall like smoke.

Vanimórë entered the prince's rooms and looked around at the evidence of the fight. Gthar lay on the floor, blood daubed dark on his pale robes. Vanimórë knelt beside him and the dark eyes flicked open.

''Thou didst fight well.''

The man coughed. ''I would die to defend my prince. But I failed. I die knowing he will follow me.''

A dagger appeared in the Elf's slender hand. Soaked cloth fell apart under it's edge. Gthar could not move, waiting for the slide of it into his heart. His beloved prince had been a fool indeed to trust this one.

_ Foolish, romantical, like his mother. _

''I have seen worse.'' The rich voice was thoughtful. ''Brace up, man, thou art not quite dead yet.''  
_ Thy death would annoy me extremely, and devastate thy son. _

''My...?''

_ Thou didst not think Taraluk could get such a child, truly? Even on the woman thou didst love. One snatched moment, in a storm, on a journey...a trusted guard...and love brought a child into being. He will not die. And nor wilt thou. _

More cloth tore, pressure speared fresh pain through him, and Gthar cried out before darkness fell over him like night.

~~~

_ The Prince has been taken! _

Word rippled out through the palace and into Tanith. The nobles sipped wine, conferred with their advisers, their own wariness and fear increasing an hundred-fold at the news. The Guards were shocked, and the soldiers muttered like a distant thunder which in any normal realm, might have perturbed their ruler.

Vanimórë walked out into the training ground into complete silence.  
He stood facing those gathered there and saw the sullen hardness on their faces. For a moment he wondered if they would, as one, turn their backs and leave, and he would have thought highly of them if they had. To a man, they believed he was responsible for Khanad's downfall.  
Then Cartha stepped forward. He crossed the space between them and stood, feet planted firmly, chin raised.

''Prince Khanad was a good man.'' All friendliness had vanished from his tone. ''Good soldier too, though you might not see that, might think us all children compared to you. But we grieve for him. We respected him. You ought to know that.'' The words were low and intense. ''He was a man that one, in a city where there are not enough. He was too good to be tossed aside at your whim, _whore!_''

The purple eyes were unblinking and Cartha's hands clenched, longing to drive into the hard stomach as anguish and rage billowed through him.

_Do not do it. Unless thou doth wish to be tribute thyself. I am...favored. The emir will be most annoyed with thee. _ Self-mockery.

Cartha's eyes narrowed.

_ Khanad still lives. And he will live. The Games come soon, Cartha and then many things will change. _

''What the plague are you...?''

''Thou art a fine warrior, but I ask thee to use thy brain a little,'' Vanimórë murmured. ''Thou art a gambler.'' _ Well, I gamble also, and with more than thou canst imagine. _

Cartha thought the Elf was practicing the trick of speaking without moving his lips, and he looked hastily around, but saw nothing in the faces of those behind him to indicate they had heard anything. Puzzlement crept into his eyes.

_The last throw of the bones*, Cartha, the last throw is what matters. To win ** everything ** _

Vanimórë turned, the scimitars whispering from their sheaths as he walked to the sword tree.

''Cartha?'' Zochana said close beside him.

''I do not know,'' Cartha muttered. ''I just – do not know.''

  
~~~

''Meluion.'' Vanimórë murmured, seeing the fretting pain and bewilderment in the clear eyes, as Elgalad rose from Gthar's side.  
The man slept, his wounds cleaned, sewn and bound up. None had said anything save Nothtar, and Vanimórë had drawled, ''He shows courage and loyalty. I do not waste things which are of use.''

_ If thou doth not trust me, Meluion, who will? _

_ I trust thee, but I am afraid for them ! _ Elgalad pressed himself close.

_ We stand near the edge of the chasm, Meluion and I cannot fail at what I must do. Thou must be as Light to me. _

_ I will be anything to thee. I would be everything. _ Elgalad locked his arms tightly, bent his face into Vanimórë's neck.

_Thou art already everything,_ Vanimórë thought to himself. _ And therein lies the doom._ ~

~~


	55. The Walls Press Closer

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ When the news reached Anwyn of Khanad and Aiana, she knew by the faces of the guards what this meant, and she dropped to the bed, her head falling into her hands. Horror pierced her heart like a spear crafted of ice.  
_ Bema help us! His own son! _  
When she had first met Khanad she had been furious and mistrustful, thinking him a spoiled brute. But she would have seduced him if it had served her purpose, had it put her in a position to find Elphir. The prince, used to women, had seen this and not pressed the point. Perhaps it wounded his pride. Anwyn did not know, but he could have taken her in the same violent manner as his father; he had not. Therein lay the difference between them.

This place would never be her home, she would never become truly accustomed to it. Days had faded into weeks and then months and she had believed that she had gained some understanding of the power-play here.  
Now the grounds beneath her feet were shifting once more.

_ No one here is safe. _

She had been reluctant to trust the Prince. That one small incident had not been enough for her to admit him into her confidence. She saw little of him, but she heard more from Elgalad, and from her slaves. Khanad knew about Elphir, and had not vouchsafed the information to his father.

Hot tears of anger welled in her eyes. Khanad was younger that she, and was sentenced to death, when the one who should have died sat on the throne of Tanith!  
Anwyn knew that she had chosen to play at a very dangerous game. She had not realized how dangerous.

Her finger reached up, combing through her hair and clenching into fists. She felt the painful tug at her scalp as she desperately fought to master herself. She had known times of trouble and come through them but this…this was different. Never had she encountered a people who deemed life so unimportant. That a Father would have his own son killed…

_But why? _ she wondered staring straight ahead. Had he simply angered the emir? or was there more behind it?

_ Fool, fool, fool! _ she silently berated herself, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her own safety was hardly assured. She would be queen only for as long as she could hold the twisted desires of the emir, but in order to do anything, she had to try and hold them as long as possible, a sickening thought. Doubts, dark and insidious, began to trickle into her mind. Whom could she truly help? If she were to find Elphir, what then? It was not as though she would simply be permitted to leave the city. She had fought for so long now to forget she was watched at all times, but it was a fact.

If her husband was now a slave, she might buy his freedom…yet not her own.

She was so deeply mired in the palace that she might never escape. The thought immediately shamed her. She was thinking of her own freedom when innocent souls were soon to die? But would this be the rest of her life? To wait until the emir ordered her death? She would sooner die by her own hand than endure that future. She was already afraid that she was forgetting what it felt like to be free, and worse, that she was beginning to accept the rythyms of the days in the palace. And she was forgetting other things also: the embrace of her husband, the scent of his skin, the sensation of his hair as it brushed against her bare shoulders. Her eyes closed to call them back. They grew more distant each day.

It was the emir's belief that she carried the blood of Numenor that had kept her alive and in his favor, but in her own eyes she was shamed before her ancestors. ~

~~~

  


  


** Chapter End Notes: **

  


Bema - Oromë the Hunstman of the Valar, known and revered by the Rohirrim.

  



	56. Steps In The Dance Of Death

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

~ Nothtar walked through the great room where, seated at tables covered with scraps of parchment, those who worked for him systematically read through reports. They came from not only this realm but far beyond. Knowledge, to the Spy-master, was worth more than gold.  
A frown perpetually creased his brow these days. Taraluk had always been simple to understand. His appetite for women, youths, fine wines, narcotics, was easy to feed. His increasing paranoia had been dangerous, but since the arrival of the Elves and the woman, this seemed to have receded into a drugged haze of pleasure. His consumption of opium had not increased, but his consumption of the black haired favorite had. It was almost as if the emir were under two spells, that of the 'Lady' and that of the Elf.

Taraluk should have been troubled. He was not. He seemed blind to what the Lady's visit to his favorite implied. Nothtar however, did not think that _She_ cared one whit who ruled in Tanith as long as she received her tribute. If she could make use of one who was not only a ruler but a warrior, he would not give a bent copper for Taraluk's life. She could withdraw her favors from him and bestow them all on the damned Elf.  
Already the Spy-master had dipped into his bottomless purse to pay certain warriors to kill Vanimórë. Of course, the whole point of the Games was for warriors to kill until one alone was left, but Nothtar added an incentive to that. A palace, a seraglio of the finest women, a title of nobility to be bestowed to the one who could kill the Elf. But he was never one to rely on a single plan.

Aiana had not been the only one who had come to notice that, despite what he was to the emir, Vanimórë loved the fair Elf. They never coupled, but only because Vanimórë held back. In a land where people did as they wished in such matters, this was curious. There was desire, so why not consummation? Was Vanimórë afraid of this information being taken to Taraluk, or did he withhold himself because he truly desired to please the emir and was unwilling to jeopardize his position?  
That seemed the most logical explanation, for certainly the ruler would explode in a fit of jealousy if his favorite were seen to want another.  
Nothtar's strangle-hold of the spy network had so far ensured that Taraluk knew nothing of went on in the Vanimórë's chambers. He told the emir what he wished him to know, and had himself reported on the Lady's visit. Taraluk's response had been unexpected. Surely, he said, She was endorsing his choice.

Nothtar thought he was the only one who perceived the weakness in Vanimórë: Elgalad. Taraluk had been hungry for him, and Vanimórë had skillfully drawn the man's attention back to himself. It was Nothtar's task now to ensure that the emir did have Elgalad. If Vanimórë won the Games, then would be the time to tempt the emir with the silver haired beauty. Taraluk would be denied nothing.

Had he seen any advantage in turning his coat and supporting Vanimórë, Nothtar would have done so, but Vanimórë was not the kind to be dazzled by flattery, sated by drugs or wine. The Prince...well, it had only been a matter of time before he fell. Had not Vanimórë come to Tanith, the emir might have continued to use Khanad to command the Army, but only for a time. Too many realms in the Harad were ruled by men who had garnered the respect of their armies, and a man with an army at his back is more than half way to a throne. Which brought Nothtar's thoughts circling back to Vanimórë.  
The mood among the guards and soldiers had been grim after Khanad was taken, which only reinforced the Spy-master's belief that it was as well he was gone. There had been no open rebellion; he had not thought there would be. Fear ruled Tanith and were any man so foolish as to challenge authority, there was always another way to threaten him. Every-one cared for some-one. In this city there were only two who had shed the shackles of such affections, the emir, and Nothtar himself.

~~~

Tanith sprawled on the bay, white against the turquoise ocean, and Glorfindel and Tindómion, turbans and veils concealing their features, looked down at it before joining the road, busy with travelers headed to the city.

_ Vanimórë, we are here._

_ Welcome to Tanith once more,_ came the response.

As the moon rose Glorfindel, ensconced in the House of Palms, let his thoughts encompass the city. He felt the buzz of life, frantic and wild. His thoughts strayed towards the isle hidden by perpetual fogs and his eyes narrowed.

“What art thou?”

There was very little time, he thought, as he walked down the cool stone steps into the inn's common-room. It was busy, no-one spared him a look save perhaps to notice his height. His eyes passed over the merchants and rested on two men with the look of soldiers. They were sitting in a corner, and he focused on their conversation.

“Damned lying bum-boy, I would see him _ dead !_”

“Cartha ! Keep your voice down!”

“A pox on him ! You feel the same ! That Elf – he is dangerous! He spoke into my mind – Gods I cannot get the feeling out ! He told me to trust him, even as our prince was being taken for tribute, and speaks as if it were some sort of game! Ay, a game played with live pieces !”

“And you said he told you he would save the Prince.”

“How could he? No-one comes back from the...ship. He is more deadly than any-one I have ever seen, but he would have to be a God to aid the Prince. And why would he? With Khanad gone he has one foot in the army and one already in,” his voice lowered. "the emir's bed."

Very little time, Glorfindel thought as he signaled for a jug of wine. Vanimórë was playing this game to the utmost.

The Elves felt constrained and cramped in this city which reeked of blood and secrets, where they must go veiled and hidden and stay within walls of stone. They did go out, joining the great press of people moving through the gates, to breathe the free air. This was not New Cuiviénen, it was a cacophony of noise and smells, the urgent pulse of mortal life. It was a cocoon that marooned them in an alien place where they must conceal themselves and curb their steps.  
Tanith was permeated by a deep fear. As the Games drew closer, there was a hysteria in the air, as a man who guzzles wine to forget something and, cup-shotten, will laugh desperately to prove himself unconcerned.

There was no true joy here and above, where the domes and spires of the great palace glittered, there dwelt Vanimórë and Elgalad, imprisoned by Vanimórë's steel-hard will to end the darkness that enslaved the land.

_ There will be an end to this Glorfindel, _ he vowed. _The thing on that island will not feed again, the last Ship was the end of it ! _

Vanimórë hurled the challenge into something that watched with eyes and thoughts older than time, colder than the grave. It did not understand love, hate or even fear, felt only a bottomless hunger. There was nothing for him to grasp, to wrestle with, just the fathomless dark. It was as if a thing which had crouched at the bottom of a mountain since before Iluin and Ormal were raised, blinked slow eyes and opened its mouth to swallow Arda itself...

_ I want thee to see what I saw. _ Vanimórë opened his mind to show Glorfindel the visitation, the mockery of life and love and even lust which still tainted him like ooze from a rotting cadaver._ That is what we face, What is it? _

_ Eru..! _ Glorfindel felt a deep queasiness seep through to his very bones. _ I do not know, Vanimórë...it is unholy._

~~~

The room was windowless, but deep shafts allowed the evening air to penetrate, and thus Khanad knew that night was approaching. Each night carried them closer to _ the _ night, the Games, the next sailing of the Black Ship.

Under the palace, which was as old as the Founding, was another world, of passages, hidden rooms, stairs and shadows. Nothtar knew them all. Khanad had only guessed at the extent of them.There were rumors that they ran to the Old City, and this appeared to be true. They had walked for some time before he had been thrust with the slave girl, into this chamber. The guards had been strangers to him, Nothtar's men, no doubt, their faces hidden by their helms, giving them a remote, inhuman look. Two of them had deposited stone jugs of wine on the floor, clay bowls, a plate of flat bread and mutton and then the outer bar thudded into place after the last of them left.

It was stark. Old, worn rugs scattered the stone floor, and two long couches, their padding leaking out, provided the only places, save the floor, to sit or lie. In a smaller chamber, a spout trickled water down into a cracked drain, used both for bathing and bodily wastes. But it was pure, clear water and eased the dryness from his throat. A lantern had been left, which only darkened the shadows, seemed to invite the silence to creep closer.

In despair and grief, he sank down. The grief was for Gthar, so faithful and so foolish that he had fought to the end, ignoring Khanad's commands for him to surrender.

_ But his was a better death than mine will be. _

He dared not think of it. He let the water pour over his face and then returned to the room. The unconscious girl was stirring now, whimpering, and her eyes opened, dark and enormous. Pushing herself upright, she stared wildly around, then bowed her head and began to cry.

''We are going to die, lord, we are going to...the ship...the isle...'' She sounded as if she were deliberately prodding the approaching horror as a man probes with his tongue at an aching tooth.

''I am afraid so.'' Khanad hefted the wine jug and poured into one of the bowls. He stared at it, and then shrugged, crossed to the girl and handed it to her.

''_I_ should serve _you,_'' she protested, and then laughed hysterically as if at the foolishness of the thought.

''I truly do not think that matters now, do you?'' His voice was dry.

She took the wine and drank deep and then offered it back, and Khanad finished the rest. A silence fell, not uncomfortable, but a quiet between two people who have no hope and no need to fill the air with meaningless words.

_ Khanad. _

He jerked, serving Vanimórë with a confusion of words, in a storm of hate and anguish. It was difficult to decipher it, but Vanimórë did not need to.

_ Gthar is alive. He is in my chambers. _

This brought the Prince up short. _ Ah, gods ! He will live? _

_ I believe he will. He is strong, his flesh is healthy and I know much about wounds. _

_ He should not have fought. _

_ He loves thee and is loyal. _ Vanimórë stared through the fretted screens in his rooms, while Elgalad watched him, and Gthar slept deep, beyond pain, numbed by poppy.

_ Strange words for you to use, _ flashed the Prince, clear and harsh.

_ I will not let thee die._ His promise was almost weary. Vanimórë reached out to Elgalad and smoothed a hand down the straight back, feeling the heartbeat, feeling life, needing it against remembered horror.

_I will be on the same ship as thee. _

_What?_ Confusion swirled in Khanad's mind. _ Why? You wish to go to the isle? You will die. Every-one who goes there dies. Do you not understand this, you insane fool? _

_I will not die. Nor will I be alone. _

_ I am making false promises, I do not know what I face or if I can save **any-one.** Yet I have to. I have to save them. All of them. That thing must not gorge on one more life ! _

_I do not understand ! What are you going to do? _ The words rang out in a mind-shout of furious bewilderment.

_ When I play the Game, Khanad, I play to win. _ Vanimórë said.  
_ I am going to eat the ravenous bitch. _  
_ In a manner of speaking._~

  
~~~

  


  


** Chapter End Notes: **

  


* Iluin and Ormal were two great lamps created by Aulë in the ancient days, when the Valar lived on Almaren, in Middle earth and before they removed to Valinor in the furthest west. Iluin illuminated the North and Ormal the South. They were destroyed by Melkor three Ages before the beginning of the First Age.

  



	57. The Time Comes Soon Upon Us

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
~ _I **had** to couple with it, Glorfindel. _  
It was night. Vanimórë lay upon the Emir's bed as a long tongue, sticky with wine slithered over his nipples.  
_It is known she favors me; now the madman knows it beyond doubt. No-one questions ought I do. I can keep his attention from Elgalad and Anwyn._

_Cold, She was, so cold, a corpse left out on a dank winter night, flesh like moldering stone weeping with damp...I had to imagine she was Elgalad...she does not see love, she sees only food – and she knows that I can provide her with more..._

Taraluk leaned back.  
'' The Games approach and I have much riding on you, beside myself.'' He laughed and Vanimórë smiled, sleek as a cat in the sun, as the large hands dragged possessively over his flesh, down to the gold loincloth. Vanimórë looked roused, restless with need. Only Glorfindel could feel his hate, and he reached out in support, his sun-fire blotting out the Emir's unwholesomeness for a moment.

_ Thou art magnificent. _  
There was true sensuality in those silent words, memories of shared passion amidst war.

Vanimórë opened his mind to those memories, and further back to Maglor's hating, beautiful desire as a cane fell, teasingly, then harder, across his buttocks. He remembered as he was taken, Taraluk pounding into him. Glorfindel added his own power to the memories so that the vividness brought Vanimórë to gasping release.

Taraluk sank into oblivious sleep early that night, sated by the giving of pain, sex, the effects of poppy, and the moon was down when Vanimórë returned to his chambers. Perfumed water washed away the clinging scents, stung against the welts. Elgalad bit his lip hard as he smoothed unguent over them, the warmth of the bath painting them scarlet over the hard white curves. Vanimórë's eyes were veiled by the long lashes, his face impassive, but as Elgalad finished, he reached out and drew him close.

_ Not long now, my dear. _

_ I know, my lord. _ The moonlight caught, like the gleam of rain, tears on Elgalad's cheeks.

_ He weeps for me, when he should fear for himself. _ Vanimórë moved from the couch.

_ Meluion, this will not be easy for thee. _

_ It is not easy for thee ! _ The fair brow was flushed with heat as it rested against his neck, and blood pulsed fast and hot under his skin.

_ It will get worse._ Vanimórë felt Elgalad stiffen. He drew back, the grey eyes rose.

_How? _

_ Thou didst say thou wouldst trust me._ A nod. Vanimórë exhaled. _ I should send thee away. Nothtar has plans for thee. He has seen all along that I strive ever to shield both thee and Anwyn from the madman. He knows I love thee. He knows thou art my one weak link. _ He drew a thumb along the high cheekbone.

Elgalad felt ice run under his skin. Was he to be used as a piece on this game-board, as the others were? Did that mean that his Lord would permit him to be used, if it furthered what he had to do here? No...he could not. Would not.

_ No. Never._ The denial was instant. _ No, my dear one. I will not allow it. And when I defy Taraluk, thou wilt be sent to the isle. And so will I. _

Silence. He felt the leap of the blood in Elgalad's veins.

_ We go to that island? Thou wilt...meet this thing there? _

_Yes._

Elgalad drew a sharp breath.  
_ Can we take weapons, my lord? _

Vanimórë shook his head. _ No, but those who sail the ship will bear them, we can use those. _  
For what good they would do.

_ The prisoners are drugged. I cannot be, and it would not much affect thee, but I must ensure the Prince is not. If the tribute were not calm, they would panic and perhaps even sink the ship, throw themselves into the sea, and the...Lady would be deprived. It also means they cannot fight or run. Easy meat. _  
And he believed a sword in any hand other than an Ainu's would be as much use as pricking a Mumak with a needle. But by then, Glorfindel would be free to do as he wished, to come unclad to the isle.

_ It will be very dark, Meluion._

_ Then I will hold thee in the darkness. _

Elgalad might have held Vanimórë's heart in his hand then, and for a long moment he did not speak, but the warmth in his eyes brought a wash of colour to the white cheeks.

_ I do not know how to fight it here, _ he admitted, carefully, _ But Glorfindel can draw it out, if it is what I think. I do not know how it can be fought or defeated. I only know it must be. And I will find a way because I have to._

_ Stubborn, thou art, Vanimórë. If thou wilt give me what I require, thou wilt have all thou doth desire. _

A voice out of a distant past.

_ Thou didst give me to Him, like a damned offering, laughed as He raped me ! I had to kill my sister to save her from that ! Burn in the Void, **father !** All thou hast from me thou wilt have to take ! _

_ And I will take, for thou art mine ! _

Elgalad leaned forward, kissed the hard line of the jaw. Vanimórë shook himself free of memories.

_ Then thou wilt destroy it, my lord. _ The trust chilled him. Stubborn, was he? Yes. And it would not be enough. His hand slid down the fall of silver hair, and he turned, drawing Elgalad across to the alcove where Aiana had once slept. Gthar now lay there. Elgalad had tended him and his wounds were clean. But he was not safe. Nothtar was simply waiting until the Games, when the man could easily be disposed of – after the others had been put on board the Black Ship.

Vanimórë had wondered if Gthar's liver had been nicked but although the wounds were deep, he had seen men recover from worse with good care. He had learned all he could of wounds and the ailments which afflicted Mortals, which herbs and plants aided, how to cut, and sew and bind and keep injuries from festering. Gthar would live, but his recovery would be a prolonged one.

The days seemed to gather themselves and race, heedless as a child, toward the Great Games, and the emir's wedding. Great bolts of cloth and caskets of gems were carried into Anwyn's rooms for tire-women to cut and sew. The marriage would be performed in the great Hall of the palace, and after the commoners might see the new queen as she sat beside the emir on the final day of the Games. The night promised celebrations and debauchery such as even Tanith had never seen.

The atmosphere became frantic, expectation building with the heat, and in the House of the Palms, curbed like fretting stallions, Glorfindel and Tindómion waited.  
Vanimórë waited.  
Elgalad waited  
Anwyn waited.

In their windowless chamber, finding an unexpected companionship, Khanad and Aiana also waited – for death. The Prince knew no-one came back from the island. Vanimórë would have to be a God to challenge She who dwelt there. Yet although Khanad knew it would be wiser to accept his coming death with fortitude, he was aware of a tiny,dangerous seed of hope. He wanted the girl to hope also, for her fears, after what she had seen, were terrible, her scanty sleep racked by screams.

''How can he fight what I saw?'' she whispered.

''I do not know,'' Khanad admitted. ''But I know little of his people, only legends of long ago. And yet some legends must be founded on truth.''

''I have prayed and prayed... I prayed when my brother went missing...the Gods have turned their eyes from Tanith, we are a cursed people!''

''Hush," he smoothed back her hair.

''It is true, Lord, you know it. And what else can be done to me now, if I speak my thoughts?''

''Nothing.'' The prince's voice was wry. "So speak your thoughts."'

''It is evil. It does not give us wealth and fine weather ! What...what I saw was Death and worse! '' Aiana shuddered in the stuffiness of the room. ''She should have been destroyed long ago !''

''Perhaps She cannot be. If she is a goddess, they cannot die.'' Khanad poured wine. At least they were well fed and given certain luxuries, though neither had an appetite. The wine had changed also in the last couple of days, from a sour red that he would not have rinsed his mouth with under normal circumstances, to a fine, fruity vintage. Some of the languor which he attributed to his fear and shock seemed to depart with the taste. He felt more alert, subject to knotting fear in his stomach. He tried to quash it, but the knowledge of approaching death to one who who is young and healthy is too great and too final to be accepted.

He knew how many days went by from the down-drafts of cooler evening air and, unused to being confined, he felt he would have gone mad had he not had the girl to speak to.

''What happened to your mother, Sire?'' Aiana asked. ''There are many rumors.''

The Prince's face was cold in the lantern light. He shrugged, shook his head.  
''This happened. One day she was there, and I sat on her lap, telling her of riding on my first pony. She smelled of jasmine, she had hair like yours, long and shining and eyes that tilted up when she smiled...and then the next day, she was gone.''

''So did Phedros vanish, my brother. And we...my father received a note secretly, from some-one in the palace, that Doralis had taken him...'' She closed her eyes. ''There were terrible stories of him. They said he..." She choked, gulped back a sob.

_ They were true,_ thought Khanad,_ and I did nothing, no-one did anything. No-one ever does, perhaps she is right and we are all cursed. Perhaps the Gods punish our cowardice for not confronting Her. If a man does nothing, then can he blame the Gods for what happens? _

Aiana was crying, tears silently slipping down her cheeks.

''He died screaming, and no-one listened or cared, that was the worse thing of all, the thing which I can never cease to think of. And now so will we and none will hear us, or help us either.''

''Shhh.'' Khanad rocked her gently even as he forced back his own growing terror of whatever he would see and face on the isle. ''Do not give up hope yet. Not yet.''  
But his own hope was a wavering, frail thing in those days which passed with greater and greater speed, as a mad dance which could not be halted or slowed. ~

~~~


	58. Games Of Blood, Words Of Love

 

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

~ The vast oval arena was a murmuring sea of humanity. Since dawn, when the gates had opened, people had been arriving and settling themselves. The sand was freshly spread and raked, the pits uncovered, but the doors leading to the fighters chambers were still closed.

When the sun's ascending light touched the scepter of the colossal statue in the center of the arena, the emir came forth from the palace. Soldiers lined the way and crowds gathered to watch the gilded palanquin emerge. Upon it, robed in scarlet and gold sat Taraluk. At his feet knelt the woman who, in ten days time, would be his wife.

The road had been strewn with rose petals which the escort, lead by Cartha trod, releasing a heavy perfume. Horns brayed and the crowds went down on one knee as the procession passed.  
Alighting, Taraluk trod up the steps to his seat, and the throats of the crowd opened in a roar. He allowed it to wash over him for a long time, then brought down his scepter to signal the opening of the Games.

Since so many came to Tanith for this purpose, the bouts were organized to rapidly thin out the contenders. A melee would begin the Games, the arena filled with fighters who were often slaves, poor, or desperate. It was a bloodbath with no rules, a pretty piece of savagery for the crowd to enjoy, whetting their appetites for more.  
If any did survive, they would be entered to compete on the following days. In the afternoon single duels would be held, several at one time, for the arena was huge and could hold many on its sand floor.

~~~

The first evening that Elgalad saw Vanimórë return, his breath drew in sharply. The eyes burned purple in a mask of blood which smeared all his visible skin. When he bathed, the copper scent of it mingled disturbingly with perfumed oils.

Vanimórë seemed frozen, his face molded from stone, the eyes blank as jewels. Only when he dried and drank down wine, did expression return to him. Each evening it was the same, as he hammered his soul into iron to face the task ahead of him, and killed. And killed.

"How canst thou love me?" he demanded, one night, after the emir had sent him away. The bloodshed and the thought of his imminent wedding made Taraluk ravenous.

"How canst thou love a murderer? For that is all I am."

"_I_ have k-killed," Elgalad whispered.

"Orcs, and those men who would have violated thee. Thou hast never butchered."

"I felt n-no guilt at their d-deaths."

"It is not the same. These are just men. Some may be bloodthirsty, hard of heart, made that way by their lives, they do after, all choose violence, but I feel nothing...nothing. I have to kill them, and so they die." He looked into the depths of the goblet, set it aside, went to the screen. The night was dark, filled with the scent of jasmine.

"So, how canst thou love me?" Vanimórë's profile was white against the black shadow of his hair.

"I do n-not know any other way to feel."  
Elgalad felt his pain, his detestation. By day Vanimórë slaughtered, by night he permitted his body to be used. Loneliness hung about him like mist. Elgalad flung himself impulsively against that tall, hard body, his arms locking.  
"I do not know h-how to _not _love th-thee!"

For a long moment Vanimórë stood rigid, then his eyes closed against the gleam of the silver hair, and his soul drank of the sweetness and love, richer, sweeter than the jasmine of the gardens. And he thought of the thing that had come to him and how her hunger had seemed to pull his very essence through his skin. No, the One preserve him from that, from taking and taking and giving nothing, soaking up all that generous love like desert sand drinking rain.

His lips found Elgalad's; they parted under his, soft and eager. When the kiss was broken, Elgalad moaned in protest, even as he felt the tracing down of tongue and teeth, and each touch was like flame on his skin, sinking through it to flood his veins with heat. The night-robe slipped from his shoulders, the cord which tied it about his waist parted, and the garment pooled at his feet. The muscles of his stomach quivered. His head fell back. With a breathless gasp he threw out his arms, his fingers curling through the fretted marble, holding himself there as Vanimórë's hands clasped his hips, and the hot mouth closed over him.

He plunged into sensation like a stone into a pool, was not aware of his moans, his pleas. Every stroke was masterful, every part of him was raw and burning up.  
He held harder to the stone, arched like a bow, legs quivering, head tossing urgently with every movement of Vanimórë's mouth. And then, white light in his mind, red thunder in his loins. He fell back with a cry, breathing hard.

Vanimórë looked up at him, the river of silver hair, long legs trembling, and rested his brow against the hard plane of the stomach. Tremors chased through flesh and sinew. He kissed the smooth skin, then came lightly to his feet.

"My l-lord..." Broken cadences, lips against his throat.

"I wanted that, thou art beautiful, and I needed to taste thee, to give thee something."

" Please ! Take m-me, use me to forget, my l-lord !"

"I cannot, Meluion."

"Please! _ Please!_"

Vanimórë silently cursed what he was, and the darkness within him which would spread like shadow over Elgalad's purity. He knew it. He would want too much. He was...  
_Like her. I could never get enough of him..._

_ What will become of us, Meluion? _ he wondered as he soothed Elgalad in the still and silent night.

"Thou dost w-want me." It was not a question, it did not have to be. His hardness pressed Elgalad like a bar.

"Always. Listen to me." He tilted up the firm chin." What if I hurt thee?"

The grey eyes met his fully. "Am I so w-weak, then?"

"Thou art not weak, my dear. But sooner or later, I would take everything...everything..."

"But I _ w-want _ that," Elgalad whispered. "Canst th-thou not see?"

"I see too clearly. Thou hast always born my mark, like a potter's thumb-print on clay. I should have had the courage to kill myself before I ever met thee."

"_Do n-not say that!_ I was born for th-thee !"

"Thou couldst die _of_ me," Vanimórë said grimly, "And then there would be nothing for me, and I would not care if Arda was snuffed out like a candle flame !" He spoke through his teeth and Elgalad was held motionless by the passion in his tone. "So dost thou see, Meluion, why I must be so very careful? Without thee, I _am_ a Dark Lord."

~~~

In the palace, Elgalad stood behind Vanimórë checking the buckles of his harness. Since he was not fighting until the afternoon, and because of his favored position, he need not go to the arena until later. Black ring-mail draped over his shoulder-guards, but apart from that he wore only leather, which many would construe as arrogance. Perhaps it was, but Vanimórë already knew the conclusion of the Games. He was almost passing time, hacking through his opponents until he met Glorfindel. That and what transpired after on the isle were his only concerns. He was girding himself for that; the Games themselves meant as little to him as sweeping a street might mean to a man, something he could do without thinking.

_ Glorfindel, thou art ready? _

_ I am ready. Have I not done this before? _

Vanimórë turned with the instinctive half shrug that settled the harness into place, reached back in an unconscious move to touch the hilts of his blades. Elgalad's eyes met his, grave, shining.

"Do not trouble thyself for me, Meluion," he murmured.

"I know my l-lord. But I am afraid."

"What wouldst thou do if I sent thee away?"

Elgalad moved closer. "Do n-not. I choose to b-be with thee, whatever c-comes to pass."

The only sound was the roar of the masses as, in the arena, men fought and died brutal deaths under the brutal sun. Vanimórë felt the passing of their souls before they went beyond his ken, further even than the Halls of Waiting.

_ I will do anything **anything ** to keep thee safe, on the isle, But there will be fear, darkness, and great danger. _

**Thou hast spoken.**

The voice was distant yet powerful. Clear as a great, cold bell it struck his mind, before it's echoes were muffled by his instant and flaring denial of it.

And yet...he _had_ spoken, and spoken truly. And such words can never be recalled.

Elgalad nodded. "Yet I w-would rather b-be with thee in d-darkness than under the stars b-beside _Gaear Gwathluin. _ In D-Darkness, or in Light, I w-will be with thee, forever. Thou h-hast said thou art always w-with me but I will also, always be w-with _ thee. _"

"There are places I walk where thou canst not go, my dear one."

"Thinks't thou that, truly? My soul w-will always rest in th-thine."

Long hands cupped his face.  
"Ah, Hells, _ I love thee._" His voice exposed the deep lodes of love which plunged into the fathomless depths of his heart. The expression in the violet eyes was that which Elgalad had seen as he lay dying on the cold sands of Lindon, and had made the dying worth it: Love. Pain. Longing. His blood sang with the intensity of it.

_ I fear for thee, Meluion. _ Elgalad responded wildly to the kiss, and Vanimórë raised his head abruptly, as if he were startled, before drawing him close. Their heartbeats drummed together.

"Stay with Gthar," he said softly. "Do not let any enter the room, though I think that none shall. If thou doth need me, I will be here."

Elgalad nodded, his lips parted against Vanimórë's throat.

"I will return later."

"I know, my l-lord."

Vanimórë paused, then reached and drew a diamond shaped throwing knife from the baldric he wore.

"Place that under Gthar's pallet. If he wakes, ensure he knows it is there."

Taking the knife, Elgalad asked: "But why?"

"There will be a time we cannot be with him. I only hope he is strong enough to use it, or has friends here who will protect him."

Understanding, Elgalad slid the knife into his boot, then watched as the doors swung open and Vanimórë strode out, the long braid of hair serpent swinging mock-playfully behind him.

~~~

He fought with the controlled ferocity of a man doing a task which he wishes to complete as swiftly as possible. There was almost a boredom in the precision of his kills. It bespoke unguessable years of wielding weapons.

The Gods only knew who had trained him, thought Cartha, watching with professional eyes. But it was the power behind the lethally graceful moves which shocked even he. A stroke from one of the blades would cut a man from shoulder to navel or, as he had done with the fighter in the palace, shear through the waist. There was none of the flamboyancy he had exhibited in the Spring Games, now Vanimórë came into the arena simply to kill in the shortest possible time. Those he met were babes in comparison. He was older. He had seen the bloody sunset of many battlefields. Those who met him today would die.  
Cartha fumed. In the days since the prince's arrest, an undercurrent of anger ran through the soldiers. Khanad being taken as Tribute had disturbed too many people. Had the emir not held the threat of the Isle of Plagues over its citizens, Taraluk would have had his head over the main gates for the crows to pick at. Cartha thought that it might take only one more outrage to start the landslide of rebellion, regardless of the consequences. ~

~~~


	59. Sacrifices For Love

 

 

(Anwyn)

  


The days passed swiftly as preparation for both the games and the wedding grew more frantic. A nearly constant stream of servants came and went from Anwyn’s rooms.

The two stern women who had attended her after she had been violated by the Emir had returned to her service, they brought her food and wine. She ate and drank of it and thought nothing of the weariness that settled upon her afterward. It served to pass the time, and kept her strangely calm.

Bolts of white silk were brought, draped in great swaths across her shoulder and wrapped about her waist. The dress slowly began to take shape, although Anwyn felt it should be fashioned into a shroud, not a wedding-gown – though perhaps it would serve as both.

When the first day of the games dawned, Anwyn was asleep. The women woke her, bathed and perfumed her, and arrayed her for her attendance upon the Emir on this day.

Everything had lead to this and now that it had come, Anwyn felt prepared, preternaturally calm. The morning sun touched her as she strode to where the emir and the guard were preparing to depart. She dipped a low reverence, her movements somewhat wooden, to the man, whose eyes licked at her hungrily. She turned her head away, away unable to meet his lust-filled gaze any longer.

The procession slowly made its way along the road, the emir sitting tall and unmoving upon a gilded seat whilst Anwyn’s grey eyes searching the crowds, wishing desperately to see one familiar and beloved face. But all bowed their heads as they passed and she could not see faces, merely a moving sea of color.

This sense of discomfort grew as they reached the arena, and the deafening salutation of the crowds. Anwyn shrank back only to receive a forceful push from behind by Nothtar, his expression unapologetic as she whirled to face him. She had never in her life been surrounded by as many as this and the feeling was quite overwhelming. The spectators occupied both sides and filled the many seats which comprised the ring, tens of thousands surely, Anwyn thought, taking in the many levels of the massive stadium. It was not her they had come to watch nor was it the emir, but a massacre that hid itself behind the thin guise of sport. She could not help but remember how Elgalad had stood against the beast Doralis, and a shiver moved through her. While others bayed for blood like hounds keen for the hunt she could only feel a deepening sense of dread.

Another roar went up as a wooden door was slowly lifted and the opponents of the melee stepped out into the sand ring. The noise was filled with an eagerness to see death and blood that she could not even begin to understand. She accepted the wine offered to her and quickly downed the cup, earning her a surprised look from the servant; perhaps it would numb her a little to what was to come.

The glass slipped from her grasp, what little was left of the wine spilling out on the ornately woven rug. A servant rushed forward, murmuring apologies, but she did not hear the him, nor, any longer, the growing roar of the crowd. She had not even seen the mans face, yet she moved forward as though drawn by an unseen cord.

The hair was longer, unbound, not carefully combed and braided, the clothes strange, but Anwyn would have known her husband even had he stood amongst thousands.  
Breath caught and stuck in her throat as she fought to get closer to him like a dog pulling desperately against its tether.

_Elphir!_ Anwyn wished to scream his name against the dull roar which was slowly returning to her ears. She willed for him to turn and see her there, but her silent call went unheeded.  
Elphir did not turn, he did not look up, he did not see her.

Strong hands grasped at her shoulders drawing her back for there had been fear that she would topple and fall, something that the Emir would not allow…yet.

A horn blew, a long mournful note to signal the first match would now begin.

~~~

Elphir had paused, knocking some of the sand from his sandals before straightening and glancing about. The room was quiet save for a quiet murmuring amongst those gathered. The roar from came to them muffled. It sounded like the swell of the sea.  
The prince was calm. He had fought many times and the sword that hung at his side was a comfort, one he had been far too long without.

The doors were slowly drawn open, and the men moved outs.  
Elphir blinked against the glare of the sun. The sand hampered his step only slightly now, for Aethen purposely trained those of his school on sand so that they would be better prepared for the conditions of the arena. Elphir had found it difficult at first, so accustomed for fighting upon more solid ground but had swiftly adapted as a warrior must, and now knew how to better use it to his advantage.

During the time he had spent training at the school, Elphir had come to develop a respect for Aethen. The man worked his men hard but treated him well, and Elphir had no doubt that his mentor was amongst the crowds now watching what was to come.

The Prince unsheathed the blade, the weight in his hand familiar, comforting. Aethen had told him what was to come, and had given him an even greater incentive to emerge from this: if he survived he would be freed. Either way Elphir would be released from the bonds of slavery soon, he told himself grimly. Yet if he were to live it would place him in a better position to find Anwyn. His eyes had moved unceasingly as he had been lead through the crowds to the arena knowing that in this place where so many were dark, his wife would stand out as vividly as a peacock amidst a murder of crows.  
He had seen many women, but Anwyn had not been amongst them. It had been a foolish hope, perhaps, but one that he refused to relinquish.

As the crowd’s excitement rose about him, Elphir fought to block the cries for blood from his mind and prepare himself.

The horn blew, and all at once havoc exploded in the arena as the slaves began to throw themselves at once another, desperate to kill as many as possible, and thereby enhance the chances of their own survival. Several fell swiftly, blood marking the sands. Elphir had found himself engaged by a lean-built golden skinned man, who wielded a short axe.  
He was reluctant to kill, but knew that was precisely the intended outcome of this event and so with grim determination he fought to do so. If he could, he would make it a swift and painless death.

The prince attacked once, and again, but his opponent jumped away from him, and Elphir stepped up his attack testing the man with a series of shorter blows meant to test his reach, searching for a weakness.

The hard blow to his back drove him into the sand. He quickly rolled, saw the glint of a blade above him, poised and about to flash downwards. Seizing a handful of sand, he flung it into the face of the fighter, momentarily blinding him.  
The man howled as he stumbled back. It had been a move most unbecoming in a prince, Elphir thought, even as his blade flashed upwards, impaling the man, who stiffened, falling forward, the tip of the blade emerging through the back of his tunic. Lifting a foot, Elphir planted it against the man’s chest and gave him a hard shove backwards, freeing both himself and his weapon. Rising to his feet, he swung about to meet the next opponent that rushed to meet him. He had killed before, and had not felt guilt, but what he did now made him sick. These men, like himself, only sought freedom, and they would die for it by his hand.

~~~

Anwyn could do nothing now but watch in growing horror. She fought to keep her husband in her sight, and her heart pounded as furiously as it were she in the midst’s of the melee. Indeed part of her did wish to be there, beside Elphir. Sickness rose in her throat with every passing moment, with every scream of pain and death. It was a display of brutality unlike anything she had ever seen. And her husband was in the midst of it.

Many already lay dead or dying, but Elphir was still among those still standing, still fighting – and at the last it was her husband who remained against one other.

The flesh of Anwyn's knuckles blanched as she grasped the skirt of her dress. The attention of all save one was now focused entirely upon the match at hand, but Nothtar had missed nothing, and had taken a keen interest in the woman’s sudden sharp attentiveness to the games.  
Before, she had turned her face away from the spectacle, refusing to watch, was clearly disgusted and troubled. Now it seemed she could not draw her eyes away, and Nothtar turned to the source of such sudden fascination.

Elphir was beginning to tire now, Anywn could see. His movements were no longer graceful and flowing but short and forced. She recalled with painful clarity the day they had been taken from Dol Amroth, how valiantly Elphir had fought against so many in order to defend her – yet he had still been struck down.

_Not this time, All Father, I beg you!_

The memory was unbearable. She silently willed him to be strong for only a short time longer. The sharp metallic song of the swords drifted up to her. Both warriors were evenly matched and fought well but only one could emerge alive. There was a piercing cry, a long silence and then a bellow went up from the crowd as a man crumpled to the sand.

Anwyn fell back, feeling boneless with relief and closed her eyes for a long moment allowing the feeling to wash up and through her. When she opened them, the emir was leaning forward, intently watching the lone, victorious figure. A cold dread ran through her veins. Only the gods would know what ran through the twisted brambles of that mind.

She cast an alarmed glance toward Elphir, who was now slowly making his way from the arena, a limp slowing his step. His back was to Taraluk, and Anwyn did not want that mad gaze upon her husband.  
Taraluk did not understand kindness, he did not speak in the language of mercy, and his mind seeped in blood and lust. Gathering herself, she prepared to speak in a tongue he would understand. That mind only knew designs of cruelty, and she would not allow Elphir be drawn into them, not when she was already too deeply tangled herself.

Anwyn clambered up the shallow steps of the dais and threw herself at the emir. Their lips met, and she felt the hard body against her own stiffen with surprise. To touch Taraluk caused her flesh to crawl, and the feeling was increased tenfold as she felt his stirring arousal grind against her. He grasped a handful of her hair causing her to gasp in shock and pain, forced his tongue into her mouth and flicked it back and forth as though in some grotesque mockery of the act of lovemaking. Anwyn’s back arched as fingers raked down it, but she did not utter a sound, and Taraluk continued his revolting ministrations for a moment longer before drawing himself away from her.

The taste of stale wine lingered upon her lips now, and those dark eyes bore into her own yet she did not look away. She forced herself to hold his gaze, to draw Taraluk’s attention away from the injured man, slowly making his way from the Arena.  
“You shall be my queen, but you shall **never** stand as my equal, never touch me unless I command it. Now _bow !_” Slowly Anwyn lowered herself before the Emir and this pleased the man immensely, to see another so proud humbled before him. Anwyn felt nothing. All that was important to her now was that Elphir was alive, and that she would continue to do whatever she must to ensure he remained that way.~

 

~~~  



	60. There Are Deeper Wounds

 

(Written by Anwyn)

 

~ Aethen dipped the cloth into a fresh basin of water. Tendrils of crimson crept across the surface as he wrung it out and returned to his work upon the deep gash in Elphir’s arm. The grains of sand were easily removed, although the cut would sting unmercifully, the man knew. Elphir, however, remained unmoved, staring ahead of him, the cup of wine untouched. Aethen worked with silent efficiency. He had seen, treated and himself received far worse wounds.

The young man's face wore a look Aethen had seen many times, and worn himself; the expression of one whom had come through the melee alive at the expense of many death. Aethen understood the feeling well, but he did not know that Elphir's mind hardly dwelt on the fight at all. The image he had seen before being pulled from the arena, the roar still ringing in his ears and his skin damp with perspiration and blood, was branded in his mind. A pale flash of gold had drawn his gaze up to where the emir sat, and Elphir had seen a woman fling herself into the arms of the ruler like some wanton whore. Despite the heat of the day, his blood ran like ice.

He had not seen the woman’s face, he had not needed to see it. He fought to hold on to control as strong hands grasped at him, pulled into the tunnel. One of Elphir's greatest fears had played itself out before his eyes. He had failed his wife, and she had found a stronger protector. That was not something, he thought, half in shock, that Anwyn would do, but had he been stronger that fateful day in Dol Amroth, neither of them would have been brought to this city.

The pain inwardly tore at him like a wolves having a feast of his inwards. Never would he have imagined Anwyn betraying him, even now he still doubted that she had, but that was to doubt what he had seen with his own eyes, doubt his own sanity, which worry for his wife had threatened to drive away from him all these months. The small, unwanted voice of doubt crept into him, asking him if perhaps all that he had shared with his wife had been false, whether she had truly ever loved him as she had sworn. Ýridhren had many times taunted him, asking Elphir if his wife had simply sought for one with an ancient and noble title. Ýridhren had not known was that Anwyn possessed blood perhaps greater than Elphir's own, and the prince would would not have imparted that secret to the traitor.

Shame threatened to drag him down further. Perhaps Anwyn was perfectly right to seek another who was stronger and more powerful, who could truly protect her. Death had already brushed near to them once.

Elphir had never before loved as he loved Anwyn, and despite the pain of betrayal, he still loved her. He would have given his title and lineage to simply bury his face in her hair, to feel her arms slide down his back, hear words of reassurance…

“It will do,” Aethen tied off the thread. Elphir turned his head.  
“Tell me of the emir's…woman.” He spoke through clenched teeth, and Aethen glanced up from laving his hands.  
“The northern woman?” He shrugged dismissively. “I know little of her, save that she is to become Queen at the closing of the games.”

_“What?!”_ Elphir turned burning eyes towards the other, and Aethen shifted under the weight of the gaze, then, remembering that this was a slave, he squared his shoulders.

“The queen of Tanith,” he said slowly as if speaking to a simpleton.

_Queen,_ Elphir repeated silently, feeling as though he had taken another violent blow, and knew not if he could withstand any more. There was no weapon crafted by the hands could carry a greater hurt than the heart could inflict.

“An…wan,” Aethen cast his eyes upwards, scratching his chin as he fought to recall the name

“Anwyn,” Elphir corrected, and the man who had become a mentor to him cast him a wary glance.

“I shall kill him, I shall kill the emir!” Elphir was on his feet, his eyes blazing. Aethen stared and his hand gripped the taut forearm, hard.

“Silence, fool!” he hissed. “That is treason! You will have us all killed!”

Elphir pulled his arm free, rounding upon the man.

“He has stolen my wife!”

Aethen starred at Elphir for a long moment.  
“Your wife?” he mouthed, and his dark eyes flicked about. They were alone, or so it seemed, but one could never be truly safe in Tanith.  
“By the gods,” he muttered, running a hand over his brow. Not a coward, neither was Aethen a fool, and knew that should a spy catch any wind of this, all of them would be put aboard the next Black Ship.

Elphir could not bring himself to hate Anwyn. Should she stand above him and deliver a death-blow, still he would love her, and he was truly a fool, he thought. All his anger and hate was channeled towards the emir, whom he had not even set eyes on before today. He had heard enough though. 'The Most High,' people called him, in fear-tinged voices. Elphir knew his wife, and that she would never endure the presence of one rumored to be vicious and debauched. So, was the emir truly cruel? Anwyn had not appeared cowed, or afraid, indeed, though it grieved the prince to admit it, she had thrown herself eagerly at the man. Anwyn was a woman of healthy appetites in the bedroom, yes, but before him there had been no-one. To see her fling herself shamelessly into a stranger's arms...That image had burrowed itself into his mind and he wished he could free himself of it.

Aethen was silently praying to the gods – any god – for protection, but Elphir was mercifully silent now. He had shut himself away within his own mind, struggling to make sense of this all. His thoughts were too wild,and he knew that there was only one who might tame them.~

  
~~~

  



	61. I Ask Thee To Remember

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
~ ''The games begin today.'' Khanad waited until the blank-faced guards had left the customary trays and replaced the oil-lamp.

''How can you tell, sire?'' Aiana asked.

"By the air at night. It blows down these shafts, as it always does in the evening. By that, I have counted the days and nights.''

''Ten days then,'' she rubbed her arms as if a chill touched them.

"Vanimórë..." The Prince hesitated, then, ''You served he and Elgalad. Did he ever speak into your mind?'' He tapped a finger to his head. ''Did he ever speak to you so that it sounded in your head, but did not move his lips?"

''No, Sire. Though I have heard the Elves can read minds.''

''I think my father's damned favorite can, at any rate.'' Watching Aiana shiver again, Khanad sat down beside her and put an arm about her.

''He spoke to me, in that way, saying that all this would be over, that we would not die.''

The girl's great eyes turned to his.  
''Truly?''  
Ah, he wanted her to hope, but was it a fool's hope?

''I do not believe Elves are Gods or Demons, I do not believe they cast spells – our old tales speak of wars in which they died as Men die. But perhaps Vanimórë does not need sorcery. I have seen him fight. And it appears my cursed sire is not the only one who favors him.''

Despite the warmth of their shared bodies, another shudder weltered through Aiana. The thing intruded on her dreams. She felt constantly sick remembering the charnel reek, the scent of rotten flowers.

''She was death.'' The thought of being put on board the ship and taken to the isle brought fear pounding up in her throat.

''Perhaps he can indeed do something,'' Khanad said.

''Then why has he not?''

''He waits for the end of the Games, can you not feel the tension? This is no normal festival. Too many strange coincidences have happened. The Elves, the northern woman...''

''I hope she stabs the emir in the throat while he sleeps !''

''You display a great bloodthirstiness,'' Khanad remarked with a faint smile, and was startled when she leaped up.

''I have loathed him all my life ! Every-one does! I hate all of you, you nobles who see slaves only as things to kick aside, to use as tribute !" She paced to the door, her untended hair catching dark, rich glints from the lamp. "Since I was a child I have watched people vanish, picked like grapes for the ship ! And my brother...who helped him? Where is justice? He was ripped apart by Doralis and thrown in an unmarked grave. If I could get close to your father, I myself would tear out his heart !''

Khanad opened his mouth to speak, but but Aiana over-ran him.  
''And _ you _, choosing your women, sparring with your men, you felt so safe ! All of you men, you nobles and soldiers, strutting in your armor, hiding behind your wealth, and caring for nought save your own skins !''

He blinked. ''Well, you have certainly put me in my place.''

''I scorn you ! You have no true courage and no honor !''

''In Tanith honor comes at a too high a price," he admitted. " Few are willing to pay it.''

''You would laugh at me?'' Aiana demanded, seeing his mouth curving and she curled her fist and brought it down on his chest, beating him, then kicked his shin.

''I am not laughing at you !'' He caught her wrists and pulled her close. ''And you look lovely thus angry.''

''You did not even notice me as a slave !'' she scoffed.

''Gods, all slaves go veiled, I cannot see anything save white shapes, but in my Seraglio? There I would have seen you, I promise you. If some miracle occurs and we do not die, I will drape you in silks and gems, Aiana.''

Despite herself, she laughed hysterically.  
''You find me pretty, lord?''

''I find you beautiful, and perhaps spirit in women is not so rare as I thought. I grew tired of them wishing only to please, I am not my father." His mouth crooked. "I thought the northern woman would be a taste of something wilder and stronger, which was simply ennui, I know. But I hope she comes through this alive, and finds the one she loves. She is too fine to end her life in this city of darkness. And so are you.'' And he kissed her, before she could protest or pull away. Her body molded into his with the arousal of fear and passion and when after a long time, they came apart, their eyes still clung.

''We are still going to die,'' she murmured.

''Perhaps we should have a little hope, Aiana, these are strange days. I have felt this since the Elves arrived, and they knew Anwyn. It was too coincidental. Vanimórë – I wanted to trust him." He ran a finger down her breast. "He used to look as if this was all so – old to him. He was never surprised, never afraid. I felt the need to confide in him, and even imagined that perhaps he could make things right if he chose. I felt so about Gthar when I was young.''

''He _is_ strong that one," she said. "Like a dark God he looks, but he is not not cruel, not... death and decay, like..._Her._" She pressed close again. Khanad locked his arms about her, and she spoke against his shoulder. "But he is the emir's plaything, and a Death-warrior, if he has the power to change Tanith why would he allow that? I saw him return from the royal chambers bleeding...and this is not an old tale. I prayed for miracles when my brother vanished. But no-one heard. The time of legends and heroes is gone.''

''Perhaps people who lived in those times also thought that,'' Khanad kissed the crown of her hair, knowing she was undoubtedly right. He could not imagine any-one willingly submitting to his father if they did not have to. He tried to remember all the things Vanimórë had said to him, but it was beyond him, and he was using all his energy to stave off fear, to not let Aiana see how deeply the terror ran in him.  
''It would be good to believe that one morning we might wake up and find this all over. Forever.''

''I will find you in the Garden of Dreams,'' she said softly, looking up, eyes shimmering with tears. ''If only to remind you of your promise to dress me in finery and jewels.'' A valiant dimple indented the corner of her mouth and Khanad felt himself grow harder.

''You will not have to remind me.'' He jerked her against him again, and tumbled down onto the bed. They ripped the clothes from one another like two starving wolves. Her slender thighs slid over his hips, and for a time they sought refuge from their looming deaths in a shared passion sweeter and more wild than any Khanad had known.

~~~

~ Elgalad knelt by Gthar. The man's breathing was easy, no fluid stained the bandages over his torso and there was no smell of corruption. He had slipped the knife from his boot and slid it under the right side of the pallet, as Vanimórë had ordered, but hoped there would be no occasion for Gthar to use it. He was a good man, and did not deserve to die here helpless. In his weak state any could walk in and snuff out his life were he alone.

A hand touched his. Elgalad looked up. Gthar's eyes were open and aware, only hazed by sleep and poppy.

''What day is it?'' His voice was thick, rasping. Elgalad poured water and gently raised him, letting him drink.

''The fifth of the G-Games.''

''The Ship sails soon, then,'' Gthar drank and sank back. ''He promised he would save my...the Prince.''

''He w-will.'' The certainty in those two words flicked the dark eyes open again.

''You know this? You would swear it?''

Elgalad was thrown back in memory to Lindon, frost gleaming on the sand, the shadows of the cliffs cast blue in the early light. He remembered the shock as the blade struck him, the blaze of terror when he felt his throat flooding with blood. He had been so desperate to hear a word of love. There had been none, but his last sight had been of Vanimórë's face stripped as if by flame of its hard veneer. The violet eyes had held anguish and love, and that had gone with him into the dark.

But he could still feel. Not pain, not fear, but emotions, the grief of separation. There was no peace even in death, it seemed, no release from love. It had not seemed to last long, and he had felt no summons from Mandos, as it was said all Elves did. There had been the sense of being held in warm arms, even as he still yearned back toward life, the one he loved.  
And then a breaking of noise against his ears, light spearing his eyes, breath moving into his lungs, the touch of a hand on his cheek.

From somewhere beyond reason, he said, ''I swear it, Gthar.''

''He said...the prince was...my son.'' Elgalad nodded and Gthar went on, "How could he know? I used to imagine it, but it was so unlikely...one time, as he said. A storm as we traveled...I thought it was her I saw in him, not me. He cannot die like that !"

''He will n-not.''

''_She_ favors your lord.'' Gthar's voice was barely audible. ''You know this. She came here.'' Elgalad's frowned. ''The little slave girl... she saw. Khanad found her sick to her stomach in the gardens. She told us. No-one save Nothtar and Enoch have witnessed Her visitations.'' he paused to draw breath. ''She...made herself look like _ you,_ so your lord would have her.''

Elgalad sat back on his heels. He had wondered at the increased vehemence of Vanimórë's embraces, as if he sought affirmation of love. Which he always had, always...

_Oh, my lord..._

''So, are you sure he does not seek only to supplant the emir? For with Her favor, he could rule this land.''

''He wishes to destroy them b-both,'' Elgalad bent close, his lips hidden, his words a mere breath. Vanimórë had said that Nothtar had called away his spies for now, but only because he had other plans. And it was wise to be cautious. ''No more t-tribute. This h-he has sworn.''

''How could he destroy her? She has been here a long time, Elf. She is some dark and ancient power, I think, of the old world.''

Elgalad looked at the man, saw the despair, the need to hope.

''H-he is a god,'' he said simply.

~~~

He left Gthar sleeping. Pacing to the screened balcony, he felt the sunlight fall on him through the fretted lace.

_ He never told me She came. When? That night I felt something terrible in my dreams? Was that it, when he held me so tightly? He had bathed again, his hair was wet...oh, my dear lord...she looked like me? _

It was very hot. Elgalad's hands were icy.

_He will not take me but some thing that can take my shape? Something dark, something terrible and he will couple with it, but not me? _

To feel jealousy was foolish beyond measure, he knew.

_I need him. I want him, whatever he thinks the cost will be to me, I will pay it !_

If he could only make Vanimórë jealous ! At that he almost laughed aloud. Vanimórë had said more than once it would be better for Elgalad to love another.

_Yet he reclaimed the Silmaril of the Oceans for me_

Vanimórë had risked his very existence in Arda to bring Elgalad back to him.

_And for what, my lord, my love? _ He pressed his brow to the marble and remembered the utter passion in Vanimórë's words as he said:  
_ Without thee, I **am** a Dark Lord._

A Dark Lord like Sauron like – Eru forfend ! – Morgoth? Elgalad remembered Hargad, who would have raped him near Esgaroth, and how he had died: impaled, a death which must have taken so long, been so agonizing...

A shiver passed through him, a dreadful fear which was not for himself, but for Vanimórë. And then he thought of the gentleness, the compassion which had survived Angband and Barad-dûr, and that was surely the greatest miracle of his lord's life.

_ He walks such a narrow path, with an abyss each side, _ Elgalad realized. _ Is it truly only I who keeps him balanced? What am I? I am no Glorfindel, I am not one of the Noldor who have returned, terrible and beautiful and filled with fire..._

''Thou art Meluion.''

He raised his head, not knowing how long he had been standing, blind-eyed. The sun had shifted and now he felt it warm his left cheek. Turning to the tall figure splashed and glossed with blood, he murmured:  
''Gthar said thou d-didst sleep with the..._H-Her?_ She took m-my form?''

Vanimórë shook his head, said silently, _ She **tried** to wear thy form. It was a dreadful mockery. I made myself see **thee** for long enough. For she does not understand the vitality and beauty of life or love, or desire. She tries to counterfeit it, and fails. But since then, none have dared to say aught against me. Think thou that Gthar would remain here, untouched otherwise? The Lady favors me. It gives me power for long enough. It puts me where I need to be. But where I need to be, on the last day, is on the isle. _

He turned away shedding his garments, the water staining with blood until it looked as if he bathed in crimson, some Blood God who would drink of it and want more...As he rose, it ran in rivulets through his hair, down his white face and Elgalad lifted an urn of clear water, rinsing away the image.

''Thou dost doubt me now.'' Vanimórë stepped from the bath washed clean, the tattoo's in black knife-sharp contrast to his white skin.

''I am afraid for th-thee,'' Elgalad confessed.

Something moved behind the vivid, dimensionless eyes.  
''I need thy love. I need some-one to have faith in me !''  
Elgalad was startled at the edge of despair in the words.  
_I have to hold to thee in the Darkness ! _

"I w-will hold thee !" He came close and clasped the tall, wet body against his heart.

''If thou hast any doubt of me, I am lost, nothing can light my way back.''  
_And I truly will be Nothing, myself. _

''I am h-here for thee. I w-will always be here f-for thee."

''No-one has loved me, save my twin, long ago.'' Vanimórë's arms encircled Elgalad and locked him close. ''Thou hast loved me unconditionally. My light in the darkness. And thou must be that Meluion, in truth.''

''I w-will be !'' Elgalad drank the water from wet skin, nuzzling it, kissing. He felt the pulse quicken, beat rapidly, the arch of the the throat, as Vanimórë offered himself to sweet eroticism. Then, with an exhalation of regret, stepped back.

''What m-must I do – on th-the isle?'' Elgalad looked up.

''Thou must love me, Meluion.''

''Is th-that all?''

''It is everything ! Blindness will come over us in that Dark...And I ask thee: Remember me. Or I am lost.''

_I will be lost...and I will be Nothing. _ ~

~~~


	62. For The Love Of A Queen

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ Nothtar was a patient man. It was a trait that had served him well. One who sat in silence and did not speak could be ignored, and with his silence he had gained the secrets of other’s. Through betraying those secrets he had clawed his way to the position he held now, and into the Emir's trust, though Taraluk truly trusted none save himself.

Thus he was permitted into Anwyn's chamber without asking leave of the emir and watched impassively as she was helped into her ceremonial wedding robes. None acknowledged his silent presence and as he examined her, he still could not see what there was in her Taraluk so desire. Her buttocks were too round, her arm’s too thin and her skin too pale. Still, what the emir wanted, the emir must have.

The sunlight caught and winked on the gems embroidered into the rich material, and Nothtar, walking about her when her dressing was complete, was satisfied. It had been his duty to ensure that the woman be well turned-out; the emir would expect nothing less than perfection.

As she moved, the pale silk rippled behind her like water flowing over rocks. It was a beautiful effect but Nothtar could not help but calculate how much coin was wasted upon this affair.

The woman’s gaze, filled with clear, silent hostility, alighted upon him, as if she read his mind. Nothtar reached out and grasped her chin, tightening his fingers as she tried to pull away. Her strange, pale eyes were filled with fury.

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly as though dealing with a disobedient child.

“Such riches are wasted on such a face as this.” His hand dropped. “Though it is not your face that is truly desired.”  
There was a sound akin to the hiss of an enraged cat. A short blade emerged from Nothtar's belt and he whirled to the woman, whose cheeks were stained red with anger. The ornately wrought dagger was more decorative than functional. Anwyn knew enough of weapons to know it, and that by his hold, Nothtar was no knife-fighter. But she smelled the sweetish tang of poison.  
"Be careful of your temper," he advised.

The day that Anwyn had dreaded for so long was finally upon her, and her careful patience had frayed into nothingness. It took only this to ignite her temper, temper and she started forward, but the ornate gown curbed her steps. His verbal barbs were nothing new to her, but now every passing moment felt as a tightening noose about her throat.  
The fingers holding the blade slowly relaxed, and Nothtar returned it to its sheath about his belt.  
“Do not be a fool,” he murmured. “I could have gutted you as easily as a Fishwife guts the days catch.”  
He would not have dared to touch the woman, but he had arranged for many deaths in his life. All Tanith knew it, and no-one dared cross him.

“You have do not have the authority to end my life,” Anwyn answered, her tone insulting in its certainty. She knew it was foolish to be confident of one's life in a place such as this, where even the Emir's son had been sent to his death, but for this time, she was safe.  
“I will see you on the Ship, fool,” he hissed. “You are merely a woman, a vessel to be filled by the emir, while you please him! Which will not be for long! Do not forget what you are!”

The grey eyes grew distant “I do not forget,” the woman replied.

~~~

Banners bearing the insignia of Tanith fluttered lazily. The day was hot, there was little more than a breath of wind in the air and many fanned themselves as they stood waiting. The dais where the Emir sat was covered by an awning, but there was no such comfort for to the masses, who were forced to endure the hard glare of the sun.

As though they thought and acted with one mind, the nobles dropped into a low reverence as Taraluk appeared, dressed in dark robes trimmed with red. None dared breath until he had mounted the dais and turned, gesturing for them to rise. Many eyed the Soldiers who were a constant presence with wariness. Armor glinting in the sun, weapons drawn, the soldiers stood perfectly still, ready to act upon the first stirring of danger towards their ruler.

The emir gestured lazily for the ceremony to begin. Flutes played softly from unseen musicians as the woman emerged. Some felt pity, others gladness that it was not them in her place, and some were envious of the wealth of her costume so sullenly worn.

Anwyn could see little through the veil, but she knew the emir waited before her and Nothtar trod behind her lest she attempt to run, which idea was laughable; she could scarcely walk in the heavy material. Her slowness was not due only to reluctance. All she had endured had slowly trickled down to this day, and now it had come it seemed unreal. Carefully, she mounted the steps to stand before Taraluk. His eyes were alight. She had seen such a look before and dark tendrils of fear moved through her.

There was something so indescribably wrong about all of this! One could not be forced into marriage, and yet here she stood while her true husband still lived. Caught and penned here, she had sought for a way to escape and found none.

The veil was drawn away from her and Anwyn’s eyes searched those of the emir. She saw no love, not even kindness. He looked upon her as though she were merely another possession among many, and her spirit gave a furious howl of denial and rage. Something shattered within her, the forcefully constructed walls which kept so much within were broken down, and she was utterly overcome. In his eyes she saw the death of her freedom, she saw long days of service and bearing the sons of a man who she did not love.

“No!” she cried, breaking the silence which had descended. She stumbled back, fought to place herself beyond the reach of the Emir, and her eyes blazed.  
“Whoreson! I shall never be your wife!”

There was a collective indrawing of breath, and the emir’s face went blank with surprise for a moment, before changing, becoming something fearsome and terrifying to look upon. His hands groped out to reach her, yet Anwyn eluded him, making her way towards the steps even as guards started forward.

“You shall burn in the flames of everlasting agony for this!” Taraluk thundered. Anwyn paused, turning back to him. Guards awaited her at the bottom of the steps, she could not possibly hope to evade them, and she was beyond the point of caring.

“Then I shall meet _you_ there!” she grated between clenched teeth.

With a swiftness surprising for a man of his size, Taraluk leapt forward and struck her. She fell backwards soundlessly and landed at the bottom of the dais amidst the silken pool of her wedding robes.

“Nothtar!” Taraluk spat, and the Spy-master man hurried forward, cursing inwardly as he dropped to the woman’s side. “She lives,” he confirmed glancing up at the man, who was regaining his composure, but Nothtar knew he was tamping down his wrath to unleash it more violently later.

“Good,” Taraluk swept down the steps, his robes trailing like spilled ink behind him. “Have her taken to my room, I shall deal with her there.” ~

~~~  



	63. Godslayer

 

(Chapter by Spiced Wine)

  
~ High above the oval arena, horns were raised, their low notes pounding ominously through the air. It was hot. Far too hot for this season, and the crowds fanned themselves, the nobles sipping at chilled drinks.  
The sand had been cleaned after the last bouts of the morning, and now the doors opened. A figure stepped out into the light, and walked to stand under the emir's seat where he bowed. Taraluk inclined his head languidly, though the pulse in his temple beat with excitement. All through the nine bloody days he had waited for _this_ day, for his favorite to win, set him on the road to conquest – and eternal life. He had his queen, he had his Death-warrior, future commander of his armies, he had the favor of the Lady. He was deathless, immortal as the one who bowed before him. The Harad stretched before him, it would lie down for him like a paid whore...

By the end of this day it would be shown that nothing was beyond him...nothing. No-one...

Even as the horns brayed again, the air concussed with power. In the midst of it stood a tall man in damascened armor and plumed helm. He might have been a god stepped down from the sun itself; in the frame of the helmet his eyes blazed white. The crowds surged into shock and panic even as his voice rang against the tiers of stone. There was power in it.

"I challenge thee, Vanimórë, and I challenge the rule of this madman and pronounce his doom. It will end this day."

Taraluk pressed back in his seat, eyes bulging and the crowd fell into avid, terrified silence. Every eye was fast on the two figures, one storm-gold, the other black as moonless night.

And Vanimórë said, "I accept the challenge, Golden One."

Both of them felt it: that ancient eye and mind leapt eagerly, voraciously toward them. She watched, feeling the presence of Glorfindel's power like radiant heat. Taraluk's eyes flicked from side to side but even his body-guard were as stone, their attention nailed to the imminent duel.

Vanimórë raised his right blade in grave salute, then stepped back, circling, one weapon raised, the other trailing for the riposte.

When they came together, it was as magnificent as their coupling had been. Steel which met steel, at every angle and height. At first they tested. Each knew how long the other had trained, the lives and battles that had made them into the weapons they were. The onlookers could not see the moves, which became glittering blurs, all they could hear was the song of the swords.

Their steps were smooth, they were superbly balanced, their weapons an extension of their bodies. There would be a moment of pause as both disengaged, eyes locked on one another, before the dance began again. Vanimórë felt a intense thrill at meeting Glorfindel thus, battle, or bedding – at a certain degree of power and skill there was little difference.

_ Who in the Dark is it? _ Zochana wondered, casting a sideways look at Cartha, whose eyes were fixed on the match. Zochana was sweating under his ceremonial armor, praying to all the Gods he knew that the golden visitation would slay Vanimórë. Yet the soldier in him did not want the spectacle to end, for it was deadly beautiful. This was no vicious hack and slash, it was a lethal, lovely dance.

''Kill him !'' Taraluk spat through his teeth, gesturing sharply for wine.

Vanimórë spun, whirling in a circle in the air to land behind Glorfindel and bringing up his blades to meet the preternaturally fast recover. They locked for a long moment, eyes inches apart, before they broke. Glorfindel followed it up. There was a shirr as Vanimórë's leather vest parted, the skin across his ribs opened. He whipped to one side, the twin swords revolving in a circle of steel. Oblivious to the hammer of the sun, people were surging up, howling.

Veiled and still in the lowest of the tiers, Tindómion stood tensely.

_ "I will need thee after," _ Glorfindel had said

"After what?" Tindómion asked, and Glorfindel smiled rather ruefully.  
"Trust me."

There was a flurry of movement and the blades locked again.

_ Thou art not trying, Vanimórë,_ Glorfindel chided, earning himself a fleeting, flashing smile.

They pushed together, the gap between them closing. There was nothing but the blare of the sun, nothing but their eyes.

_ Do it. _

And Vanimórë sighed. His fingers released the left-hand blade. His hand flashed down, dragged a dirk from his thigh-sheath – and stabbed it into Glorfindel's exposed throat above the gorget. It took a heartbeat – and seemed to last an eternity.

Blood flooded Glorfindel's throat and he felt the terrifying sensation of choking on blood. Vanimórë held him fast, mouth against mouth. _ Forgive me, Golden One. _

There was an explosion in Glorfindel's mind, a blue white flash – and his soul leaped free.  
Vanimórë held him, went down with him onto the sand, tasting blood and rage. Glorfindel's body glowed like moon-fall.  
From somewhere out of time he heard mocking laughter.

**_ Godslayer_ **

"_No !_" Tindómion's anguish sent him hurtling over the low wall. A guard felt his sword wrenched from its sheath, and a blow felled him. The Fëanorion strode out into the arena.

''Gorthaurion!'' He shouted.

Vanimórë came to his feet. With the blood about his mouth he looked like some evil spirit who would feast on the freshly dead. He snapped out orders and soldiers flooded the sand. They fell before Tindómion's fury like sheaves of wheat.

''Lock shields ! Lock shields, fools !''

Tindómion's sword clashed against the ever closing wall of bronze. The soldiers dug their feet into the sand and pushed, feeling as if they were heaving against a maddened bull-buffalo. Heads were shattered under the helms, the dead falling silently, others closed their eyes and grimly set their shoulders. Forced back and back, at last unable to lift his weapon Tindómion glared the promise of death over their heads.

''Drop thy weapon,'' Vanimórë said flatly. _Bloody damned hot-tempered Fëanorion! Dost thou think a god can truly die? _

The fight had torn the veiling from Tindómion's head and the sun aureoled him in fiery light. Taraluk, who had stumbled to his feet in fear, sank back, a strange smile on his mouth. Perhaps he, unlike his blundering ancestor Ar-Pharazôn, would be able to exterminate the last of this bloody, fell-eyed race. They were not Gods, they could die, be wounded, he had seen that. And She would appreciate this offering very much.

_This was fore-ordained, Tindómion. And now we enter ...uncharted waters. If thou art wise, thou wilt play this game, as I am, as Glorfindel is. _

Vanimórë watched Tindómion escorted away, their eyes meeting in a last, hot glance before he walked to a spout of water on the stone wall. Standing under it, he untangled the long braid of his hair. Red ran into the drain below.

A shadow came over the arena. He felt, under his feet, a deep, deep mutter through the ground. His skin prickled with the brush of Power, as he saw the sun limning the edges of towering thunderheads.

_ The death of a Power. _

**_Godslayer !_** hissed the voices from the Void.

~~~

There were no clouds. The sun, sinking slowly, seemed to pause in a gigantic silence of power. The waters of the inland sea were still. The birds were silent, and Legolas realized that in this place of music, there was none this evening. No lyre or flute, no voice rose in song. He had seen no riders, no hunters. Ecthelion, who remained with him while Maglor was gone with his father, paced the villa, pausing to stare south.

The heat increased, as if the day were turning backward to hot noon. The sky paled, the sun leaching the color of the world into itself. Everything was limned in nacreous white-gold light.

A trumpet rang from the palace, signaling the return of those who had gone across the mountains. Legolas did not heed it. A little later Maglor rode to the villa, hair still wet from bathing.

"Something is wrong here." Ecthelion met him at the double door. "Come, I wish thee to see Legolas."

"I know. What ails Legolas?" Maglor asked, falling into step.

The prince was standing on the long balcony, his hands pressed against the marble baluster. He looked as if he were listening to something far off and that light clung to his hair and flesh, dazzling, unsettling.

"Legolas?"

The prince's shoulder was hard as stone, but he turned then, and his eyes were wide and blazing.

"Glorfindel..." The word was strained, "Something..." He turned suddenly, impelled, vaulted the baluster and ran down the garden toward the shore.

The sky was a boiling golden lid placed over the world. The sun seemed to expand and become a shield of terrible white fire. Maglor and Ecthelion reached Legolas who had come to a halt and then, something, somewhere – _shattered._

Legolas felt it deep in his soul, a titanic passing of power, a sun-storm which broke the sky in flame. He stood in the midst of a conflagration which did not harm him. It deluged him and left him...alone.

_ **Glorfindel...** _

This was what the death of a power felt like, sensed by Arda, by Eru, and sensed by Legolas. It tore him from his very self. The shock ripped his spirit from his body and there was nothing but the burning, argent silence.

Nothing.  
No voice.  
Nothing.

_ Glorfindel !_ His voice was lost in vastness, he stood at the core of grief, disbelieving.

_ Glorfindel_

He ran through the regions of his soul where his lover dwelt, refusing to halt, to think, to accept what he had felt, and however far he ran there was nothing, a limitless blaze of light. It could not end so, it would not end thus !

Cries rose from the Elves of New Ciuviénen; their voices lifted to the breaking skies. Fëanor stood like an unsheathed sword beside Fingolfin, looking up at the detonation of power. Maglor knelt beside Legolas, who had plunged to his knees, his eyes open and unblinking.

_ Glorfindel? _ Maglor cried.

Legolas' soul refused to loose it's hold on love, he ran through the nothingness like a hunter. If he stopped, he would fall back into his body and...

_Why dost thou search for me? _ asked a voice, and a hand touched his shoulder.

His hair was sun-fire about his head, his aura, free of the form that contained was glory, too potent for any Elf or Man.

_ Trust me. _

They could not touch, yet they did, melting together for a moment.

_ I felt you die ! _

_ Only my body. Thou dost see why I would not speak of this? But now **She** is not aware of me. And I am free to act. _

_ Who is she? _

_ Something that hungered for Light, and now hungers for Life._

Words and love passed between them as Legolas fell through power, held in Glorfindel's arms. The image of his face melted into the brassy skies and a pair of silver eyes.

"He died," Legolas said. He looked unworldly. "I must go to the high king."

The palace was in a uproar as they pushed their way through the throngs that had gathered about the throne-room. The door-guards opened for Maglor, and he found the chamber filled with his father, brothers, Fingolfin, Fingon and Gil-galad. Fëanor's eyes snapped to him and he raised a hand. The crowd parted as he walked through, Legolas at his side.

"He spoke to me," Legolas said, without preface, and Fëanor, his face grim, nodded for him to go on.  
"He died. His _body_ died. You felt it?"

"We felt it. But how?"

"He allowed Vanimórë to slay him."

Fëanor snapped one word like an arrow-bolt.  
"Why?"

"So that the thing which they both fight believes him gone, believes itself safe," Legolas' control over his voice was admirable, thought Maglor. "Because when he does face it, it will not have time to flee. It sensed a Power in Tanith. It was agreed between Glorfindel and Vanimórë that this would happen. Part of the – game, Vanimórë had to play."

Fëanor thrust his hands into his hair, clenched his fingers, looking as if he were about to flash into flame like the boiling skies. Fingolfin laid a hand on one arm and said: "He will return?"

Legolas nodded. "Yes, but – but I believed for a moment he was gone."

"What is it that they fight?" Gil-galad asked, and Maglor looked at him and thought, _ Yes, my son is there also. _

Legolas took a deep breath and spoke the name.

  
~~~

Petals and silk streams were floating down through the air. Guards stepped back as Vanimórë ascended the steps to where Taraluk waited to crown him with a chaplet of flowers. The crowd was hushed now, as if the same instinct which warns animals of earthquakes, touched them to quiet.

Elgalad stepped forward only to be halted by Vanimórë's iron gaze. His own was filled with terrible pain. He had not believed he would see Glorfindel actually _ die. _  
He had _ felt _ the death; a blow to his heart, a shock beyond measure. Only the flash of the command into his mind had prevented him springing down to join those he knew in the arena. He could only watch in horror and bewilderment.

_ Peace, Meluion. Powers cannot die. _

''There is one thing...'' Taraluk looked flushed and triumphant, like a commander who has won a great battle. He had been shaken, had doubted, and then had come victory. That death match had certainly been worth waiting for.  
And the victor was his. He _ owned _ him, a more useful tool than any he had possessed before.  
''There is a tradition in Tanith, that when the ruler weds he may choose his gifts. He may ask anything of his subjects, who are eager to show their joy at his marriage.''

The violet eyes were unreadable, water droplets still clung to the heavy lashes after his dousing at the water pipe.

''You are _ mine _ and possess nothing. You have naught to offer me, save one thing...'' The emir smiled, leaned back. ''Your silver pet here.''

Vanimórë felt Elgalad's mind recoil in horror.

_ The time is now, Meluion. _

''No.''

There was an instant, astonished silence. Taraluk leaned forward.  
''You may not refuse, _slave.''_

''Thou hast just heard my refusal, _**Man.**_'' The words slammed back like a mailed fist, so that the emir physically jerked back as if he had been punched. His mouth gaped. The flush of wine and jubilation, the anticipation of bedding both Anwyn and Elgalad drained to the lividity of fury. Spittle flew from his lips.  
''You are my slave and I may not be denied _ anything!" _ He pushed himself to his feet and stepped forward. Perhaps only he was unaware of the stupidity in the action. His guards and Nothtar were appalled. Vanimórë was still armed, but he made no move to reach for his swords.

''I am not thy slave, thou fool. I have played thee like a lyre, to reach just this point. To win these games. I have distracted thee, imbecile, from Anwyn, from _ my _ Elgalad. And it was easy !'' He took one step toward Taraluk watching the uprush of rage.  
''Thou art ** filth. ** Thou hast no skill, no refinement, no more than a rutting dog.'' His voice, perfectly tempered by Ages of commanding armies, rang against the pillars. If the situation had not been so dreadful, so pregnant with violence, Zochana would have roared with laughter at the expression on the emir's face.

''Let me tell thee something,'' Vanimórë continued, his lips close to the painted ones. ''I have been raped by the Great Orcs of Sauron, and they showed more damned finesse than you.''

Taraluk's neck corded as he sucked in air, eyes bulging at the pressure which built in his brain. His voice emerged as a scream.  
**" Take ! Them ! To ! The ! Ship !"**

His robes swirled as he spun around, knocking back Nothtar, madness overtaking him so that he began to hit and kick out, scattering wine goblets, cushions. Slaves fled from his flailing arms and feet. The great chair was hurled backward.

**"Let the Goddess drink their blood !" ** The words were hardly comprehensible, torn from the man's throat by insanity. The guards, after a moment of frozen confusion, began to close in.

''Meluion. Come.'' Vanimórë's voice was calm as he reached out, and Elgalad took his hand.

_ Trust me, my dear._  
_ No,_ he said, reading Cartha's thoughts. _ I will not fight. For ** this ** is the last throw of the bones. Take us to the ship. _

Above them, the sun turned white, the air erupted, the ground heaved and split. Vanimórë's guards halted, staring in terror as the colossal statue of their ruler cracked across and fell. It seemed to hang against the sky for one moment before it ponderously toppled. The floor of the arena opened in a great gash which fumed sand, and the bronze figure crashed through tiers and the high outer wall as if they were made of old bread. Bleeding power, Vanimórë caressed Elgalad's mind and turned his back on the devastation. ~

~~~


	64. The Night Will Swallow Thee

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
~ This was not as his other death had been.

There had been dreadful pain and he had prepared for that, insofar as one ever could be. And still he could not control the fear of the blood flooding into his throat. But that had lasted only for a moment.

Now, with the pain and fear gone, Glorfindel saw what Vanimórë had done: caused a massive burst of blood in his brain which had killed him instantly, even before the wound could. He was grateful for that. He watched as the emir was defied, felt the power which frayed from Vanimórë's control, saw it topple the statue, felt the grief and fury burning Tindómion and from further away, the horror and loss in New Ciuviénen.

He reached out warmly to Tindómion, felt the startled cessation of anguish, saw him cease to struggle.

_ I would not tell thee, but it had to be this way. For a moment I am free – unclad. Trust Vanimórë and wait. I will be with thee on the isle. Look to Elgalad _

He turned in the great brightness and sought Legolas first, and then his beloved brother. Legolas was falling into blazing grief and Glorfindel went to him the vast golden light and spoke.

_ Trust me._

Then he bent his thought on the isle. He was far more aware of it now, and knew what lurked there, ageless, ravenous. Through the eyes of her puppet, Taraluk, She had watched something that was a danger to her destroyed, and her appetites did not allow for further thought. She would not flee, there was a ship filled with food coming to her.

~~~

They were taken below the palace. The tunnels were old, lit by torches in brackets upon the walls. Elgalad was silent, mourning. Vanimórë wished there were time to comfort him, but everything within him now was focused like a burning-glass upon what lay ahead.

_ Trust me, Meluion. Trust **us**_

Vanimórë saw the grey eyes lift to his, the love which nothing could touch, the brief nod.

In the great, sea-washed cavern, the ship awaited. Already it was filled with tribute, sitting on benches, drugged, silent. The oars were raised, ready for the slaves who were chained below-decks.

"You are early," the ship-master said. "It is not yet sundown."

"They are to go now," Cartha snarled. "The Most High orders it." He took a last look at Vanimórë.

_ The city is in turmoil. And it would be well for you to watch the Queen._  
The voice sounded in his mind and he thought, yes the city was in turmoil, and thousands had seen the emir descend into madness, his gigantic statue fall. An omen. The soldier's mouth set in a grim line as he wheeled and marched away.

The oars dipped. The ship slowly passed under the cliffs into the oil-calm sea. The sun was hot, and when the first tendrils of mist touched them it was a blessed relief, but the unnatural fog which reached out its arms from the isle deepened, until the sun and the blue of the ocean were quenched. It pressed on them like a dirty fleece, and the soldiers lit lamps. They, after all, were used to this transition.

  
~~~

The manacles parted with a clink. On the ship, the guards who paced between the seated rows of prisoners became alert. All they could see were white-robed heads sunk in the torpor of opium. One of the men lifted a lantern and moved it across the faces. They were not chosen for their curiosity, these sailors, but the lack of it, and years of this duty had only hardened their hearts. They had indeed been startled to see the Elves, not knowing what to make of them, the light in their eyes, their beauty, their height, but they were bound like all the other tribute and had not spoken one word. The guards minds could not quite encompass them, thus they avoided them, but they were aware of the disgraced champion.  
This was a strange fate for the winner of the Games, but news had run ahead that he had defied the emir. They did not question.

The dim lamplight moved to the Most High's erstwhile favorite, easing his face out of the darkness, catching in his eyes.

The oars dipped and rose. The night seemed to be growing darker as the ship approached the shallower waters about the isle.

The guard turned away and saw, from the corner of his eye a flick of movement, before something hit him like a falling wall. As he crashed to the deck Vanimórë pulled his sword from its sheath. The man died instantly. The thump of feet on deck, the ring of weapons being drawn, broke the monotonous plash of the oars, shocked through the atmosphere of frozen dread. A running guard raised his sword and brought it down, only to find the prisoner not there as Vanimórë sprang like a cat to the mast and rebounded from it, the blade taking off a head.

Tindómion and Elgalad had not been idle. They were tied fast, but were struggling to loose themselves, rising from their seats. Tindómion ducked under the down-sweep of a sword and violently head-butted the guard. He went down, tripping one of his fellows. A boot smashed down on his head before he could rise and cracked his skull. The others were trying to keep sight of Vanimórë who moved like a black cat, his weapon killing wherever it struck. Arrows whistled through the air, but none hit; their target moved too fast. In the confines of the ship, in the darkness and the confusion, it did not take long at all.

There was a sudden silence. Tindómion felt the cold of steel through his bonds which suddenly parted, and a dagger hilt was slapped into his hand.

"Free them." Vanimórë moved to Elgalad.

"I felt him," Tindómion said. "After he...died. I know he will return, but I will not thank thee for it." His silver eyes met the amethyst before he turned to Elgalad and drew him into a hard embrace. They held one another for a moment, before separating to go down the lines of bound people.

"Do not think that I experienced any joy in doing what I did," Vanimórë murmured. "This darkness must not feel power. I can conceal mine, but Glorfindel shone like a Fëanorion lamp." He turned his head. "Khanad?"

The prince was standing close to the bow, Aiana beside him.

"Canst thou think of a safer harbor for this ship?"

Khanad appeared dazed, but he said, "No port in Tanith would receive us, any more than it would take in a plague ship."

"Then the anchor must be dropped, and thou must remain here until all is done."

The prince looked at Aiana. Her face was as bewildered as his, yet hope and relief were breaking over it like sunlight through thinning cloud. His lips set.  
"You are going to the isle?"

Vanimórë nodded.

"To confront...Her?"

"Yes."

"I will come with you."

"No !"

At Aiana's protest he drew her close, and continued, "We have lived with this fear for so long, there should be one man of Tanith to represent the thousands who have died here."

" have no right to deny thee that, but what thou wilt see – no man, nor Elf should ever see."

Khanad swallowed and set his shoulders.  
''I have imagined enough horrors these last days. I will come.'' He kissed Aiana, rested his brow against hers. ''I have to do this, sweet.''

Her eyes gleamed with tears, but she blinked them back and nodded.  
''Yes. Come back to me.''

''Find a sword,'' Vanimórë advised.

The darkness increased until the lanterns became no more than dim firefly gleams, and with it came a stench Vanimórë knew too well.

The ship was turning now and then the oars rose as it drifted. The wide planks which were let down for the tribute to walk remained upright. Vanimórë could see nothing, and without another thought he dropped over the side. There was no wharf. Once the tribute were pushed from the ship, they would swim to shore. There was nowhere else to go, and in the normal course of events bows would be trained on them. They did not have to be accurate with such a floundering crowd. Who knew what thoughts went through the minds of the men, women and children as they waded to the shore? That perhaps they could hide in the fogs, somehow survive?

_ My Lord? _ Elgalad had let himself down. The water lapped mournfully against the thin crescent of beach. _ Eru, what is that smell? _

It was as thick as the mist, a charnel reek, as if the whole island were an open grave.  
And of course, that was what it was.

The beach ended in a jumble of rocks. In a place perpetually shrouded as this, little grew save mosses and lichen on the damp stone.

Tindómion's boot struck something and he stopped at once, carefully moving it back. A body lay there. Stained strips of white still cloaked it; the mouth was open in a soundless scream, and a great wound punctured its stomach.

''Hells !'' He turned, eyes burning, as he smelled the distinctive, exotic fragrance of Vanimórë.

Who set his foot over the corpse's chest and pressed.

The cavity collapsed under his boot, the ribcage breaking in crumbling dust. Elgalad murmured something as Vanimórë shook his boot free of the detritus, and they saw then that there were no organs, no blood, simply a dried-out hollow.

''What in the One's name did this?'' Tindómion whispered. Tainted droplets of mist clung to his hair. ''_What did this?_''

''She did,'' Vanimórë murmured. ''It is how she feeds.''

From somewhere came the slip and clatter of dislodged stone, and they moved smoothly into a circle, facing outward, weapons ready. They were shining, their souls rising against the smothering darkness like tall candles. Khanad gripped his sword expertly but his face was pale under the smooth olive skin.

She smelled them, the blood running fast and rich in them, felt the heat of life...

There was a scrape of stone, an odd noise, like some great door creaking and then the horror came out of the fog.

It too showed pallor, but a corpse light, pale and noxious, green-white. A spider form it was, but huger than Shelob, and very much older. The slimed underbelly was not haired and hard, it gleamed foully with excretions, and it rippled, bulged, as if things moiled and struggled within. Vanimórë saw a face appear, its mouth gaping, saw it push against the barrier of the skin. It melted away and others formed; the dead seeking to escape their prison.

It was not real. It was dark illusion wrought to terrify, to take away the heart, and freeze the limbs.

''Holy Gods !'' Khanad gasped as the monster loomed above them and faster than any of them anticipated, it came down.

The ground shook, but there was no-one there. The Elves had broken their circle, and Khanad felt some-one shove him hard. He turned it into a roll and when he came up, the thing was gone.

She was used to hunting.

They could scarce see, and the fog distorted sound. A nameless despair seemed to seep through their very flesh, a hopelessness that there was nothing, that there had never been anything but this, that all they had done was sleep, and wake again to the darkness...

**No. There is more !** Vanimórë's voice was like a whip through the dark.

** _ Glorfindel ! _ **

She came out of her shadows, and the Elves whirled. There was the twang of a bow, the hiss of arrows which bounced off the slick belly. Khanad saw the whirl and speed of the warriors as they struck at great jointed legs, weathered by time to something resembling stone.

They spun away. Khanad, struggling through mounting fear and an odd lethargy, struck down at a huge claw, his sword rebounding as from marble,. He cursed and instinctively flung himself headlong, hearing voices, muffled as through layers of wool. The death-stench seemed to leach strength, sap will; the insidious darkness oozed like ink through his mind. Aiana, Gthar, Tanith...they retreated before that advance of nothing.

It crawled into the minds of the Elves also, and they fought it, battling to bring forth their own memories of love and light, glory, even battle, death and grief, for any emotion was something, some feeling, to set against the depression of everything. There were things worse than pain and hate, Vanimórë realized suddenly. All those feelings possessed some dynamism, some vigor. She was Nothing, a denial of the ardor of Life.

_Meluion !_

Elgalad saw him come from the mist, felt a hand touch his face. It was warm.

_My lord?_

_I ask thee to remember me. _ The violet eyes held his. In them was something that Elgalad had never seen before, never believed he could see: Fear.

_I must go. Now._

No...!

He watched in numb resignation as Vanimórë turned and disappeared, knew he was weeping, even as he fought against the mudslide of ennui flooding into his soul. His palm was wet as it gripped the short sword, and, without thinking he joined the others, only for a kick from one leg to hurl him backwards. He rolled, came up, seeing nothing, no-one. He felt utterly alone. There had been others here, but...whom? He sought for names, and saw, for a moment, faces in his mind before they were smudged over.  
His lord, was he here? He was sure.....  
Eyes like jewels, a face out of legend...

_Meluion..._

As if down a long, black tunnel he saw glimpses of things long gone... a deep forest, carpeted by beech leaves, a golden prince, a valley cupped like a gem in the hands of the mountains. He saw himself, a child, running to a tall black clad figure, arms outstretched, being caught up and held safe, protected...

They were going, the images, running from him like water into sand, he felt, for a moment, the passing of something indescribably precious.

_What was it I lost? _  
A terror came over him, greater than that of the monster they tried to fight, the loss of memory...

_Thou must love me, Meluion._

So distant those words, so remote; he heard them almost with dispassion. There was a monster here and She truly could not be fought or beaten. She was everything, she was all there was. She had always been all there was.

Rank clouds whispered past him, something broke them, walking toward him. As if he had woken from a heavy dream, and took a moment to recognize where he was, Elgalad stared, fighting to place this figure in his mind.

_My Lord... _ A sweet, far-away ache was throbbing somewhere within him. It grew warmer, deeper. He remembered arms holding him, the kisses, the erotic and flaming pleasure of that beautiful mouth enclosing him. He burned up bright as a fire lit in some lonely place as emotions engulfed him.

And then he saw...

The gait was oddly jointed, not the flowing, powerful strides he knew, the white flesh was too white and specked in patches across the face and arms, blurring the sharp tattoos, the eyes were black, pits gouged into night.

Arms reached out for him. He heard himself cry out in denial, in rage, as he whirled and brought the sword around. It cut through an arm above the elbow and the limb fell. No blood sprayed but the thing screeched, lips stretched wide, and then was sucked into nothing as if it were ink swirling into a drain. From somewhere further away, another scream came. There was nothing Mortal or Elven in it; it reminded Elgalad of the shrieks of the spiders in Mirkwood when wounded by blade or arrow.  
His flesh was damp with perspiration mingled with sour droplets of fog.

_My lord! _

~~~

There was a crunch behind Tindómion, a foot on loose rock. He span.

Everything had become dark. He felt as if he had been licked clean, and from the bottom of his hollowness, blackness rose, covering his soul in pitch.

His last thought had been...

He could not remember. He knew this island. He knew there was something here which would kill them, something monstrous and evil, and had felt a spasm of calamity as one by one his memories were lost.

Obsidian hair about a face which he knew, a face he had loved; star-blue eyes. A star in the darkness, a king....

_Gil._

Arms outstretched to him in welcome.

''Beloved...'' A current of air scattered the black hair, revealing the face, dead, flaking and splitting with corruption. There was nothing in the eyes, no blue flame, they were holes, as if a gor-crow had torn them from his head.

A snarl of ferocity pushed up into Tindómion's throat and hissed between his teeth as he brought the blade in a vicious blow across the creature's neck. The stump was dry and dessicated, and the arms groped wildly for a moment. A howl rent the air. Then the fog swirled in and the thing was gone.

A clean madness burned in his mind, fury that something had dared to quench what he was, leaving him empty, alone in the dark...  
" Elgalad !" he shouted. "Elgalad !"

  
~~~

Vanimórë walked alone.

_I have always walked alone ._

Before him a hole gaped into the Void. He felt the hiss and pulse of his blood, the beating of his heart. It was the only thing he could hear. He could see nothing.

_I am...afraid_

He closed his eyes, looked within. Fading away as if borne on a running river was a distant light, warmth, sweetness...Love.

_I have to hold to thee in the Darkness..._

He heard the click of his back teeth as he fought to clasp that light in his soul. He reached out and his fingers touched something: webbing over a cave mouth. His hands blindly searched, and he stepped forward, three steps, four...

_Glorfindel. Now thou must come. Now !_

The blackness was absolute. He stepped into the cave.

He heard a voice say: _ Yes, my friend. I come now.._

And Night swallowed him whole. ~

~~~


	65. 'Thou Art What We Made Thee, Vanimórë. '

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
~ She was Ungoliant, Gwerlum The Black, the Great Spider that Enmeshes. She had not consumed herself, as old tales whispered; she found a place to hide far in the south of the world. __

This is what I am.

Form was created from the memory of the soul. Glorfindel felt his body coalesce about him, and light exploded over the isle, light that had not been seen there since unlight spun forth it's choking darkness.  
Glorfindel blazed like a sun, Sarambar was lightning and for one endless, frozen moment, Dark and Light faced one another before Glorfindel sprang. The wrist-thick spines on Ungoliant's legs crisped and burned. The blade drove upward, piercing the foul underbelly and acidic fluids hissed forth. She screamed, bounding backwards, trailing ichor, scuttled crab-wise as Glorfindel backed her. Sarambar flicked out again like a white whip, shearing a claw, crippling a great leg, then he leaped onto the heaving back, and clasping the hilt of his blade, stabbed down. It vanished to the quillons.  
The shriek whined upward until the air bled with it. Glorfindel jerked Sarambar out in a spume of black poison, and somersaulted back. His golden aura illuminated Ungoliant as she sucked herself back into the dark.

_Vanimórë ! She is thine now ! Take her !_

Turning, he walked across to Tindómion, who said, shaken, "What took thee so long?"

Glorfindel smiled, laid a hand on his shoulder.  
"I had to see Legolas, he will tell the Noldor what happened. They felt it. He turned to Elgalad, who ran toward him. Glorfindel drew him close.

"A dreadful place," Tindómion whispered. "She has gone?"

"Her form has gone," Glorfindel qualified, "She can never be destroyed. It is for Vanimórë to meet her now."

Elgalad looked up at that and said, tautly: "Where is he?"

~~~

Vanimórë felt a shift, the dissolution of something. And then he felt her, knew her for what she was.  
She was that which had formed out of the dark before even the vision of Arda had been shown to the Ainur. She was the other side of the One, who created. She was Everlasting Night, the portion of it that thought and hungered after her opposite, light, which was why she had so voraciously drank of the Trees, had desired the Silmarilli – Morgoth had recounted his bargain with Ungoliant in Angband. Vanimórë had not truly understood then.

He was within her; she was all around him, it was she who would devour him, claiming him forever, chaining him in the Void.

_ **No! ** _

His denial was sucked from him and swallowed.

_ I am no-one, I am nothing,_ he had said, long ago to Maglor, self-mocking.  
And now he truly would be.

_**No! **_ His aura shone a deep intense purple, flickering with rainbow glints which frayed about him for a moment before it was quenched.

And then, a voice spoke to him, as if some-one stood close beside him, intimately murmuring into his ear.

_Thou doth not go back far enough to challenge what she is, Vanimórë. _

He knew that voice, but around him was...Nothing.

_ I will not end here ! _

_ Without aid thou wilt stay here forever, Beautiful Darkness within Darkness, poetic, no? _

_ I was chosen, **father ! ** _

_Choices...Thou didst make a choice to confront and challenge something which existed before Arda. Power thou art, but not Ainu, not offspring of the Mind of the One. There are Laws. Even She is part of them. One does not know Light without Dark, does one? _

The voice faded, as Vanimórë set his very soul against that which would consume it. He reached back in his mind, through Ages which unraveled like a tapestry; much of it was of black thread, but some shone vivid and beautiful.

_I will encompass her._

_That is not possible. Thou must become Darkness. _ Sauron sounded as if he were smiling.

For one moment, Vanimórë felt a creeping despair. He had always fought, but there had been something tangible to pit himself against. What was there now?

_I go back far enough. We go back far enough, He and I. We can aid thee. Or thou canst remain here forever. Make the choice, my son. _

Rebuttal scorched through the response.  
_I would trust **thee?** _

Laughter. _It is not a matter of trust, but of expediency, and thou doth know all about expediency, my son._ The voice became darker, more amused._ Thou wert made for a purpose and this is not it. Nay I speak not of thy elevation to Power in Fos Almir. Hast thou never seen it, Vanimórë? _

_What dost thou speak of? _ For a moment the Shadow was illuminated again by his rage.

_ Wilt thou accept our aid? Or wilt thou give up Life in any form that thou dost recognize, life, beauty, desire. Love..._ The word stroked and caressed and Vanimórë saw, as if down a long tunnel, a fair face turn, look back at him, grey eyes shining.

_Meluion..._

_I am always with thee!_ Elgalad's words, rich with love.

_He spoke truth, his soul is indeed bound to thine, and if thou doth not return to him he will die of grief. _  
Had he not been so locked in struggle against the demolition of all he was, Vanimórë might have heard in those words a subtle, hidden laughter.

_My Light in the Darkness,_ he thought.

_So, wilt thou accept our aid? For thou art also bound to **us.**_

_I am not bound to thee,_ he spat.

_By blood and by pain, by fate, thou art bound and ** thou art what we made thee !** _

Vanimórë's mind detonated with abhorrence.  
_ I fought against thee all my **life.** Thou didst **not ** make me!_

_Thou didst become all we wanted thee to be. My finest creation, my strongest alloy. No-one else can prepare the way for the return of Melkor at the End of Days. _

For a long, long moment Vanimórë's mind was unable to grasp what he was hearing, and then, blossoming like an unwelcome flower, a vision from long ago bloomed: a time when he could have made a very different choice. A great tent on a biting eastern night...

~~~

''What shall we do together, my beautiful darkness. There is a world to rule and bring order to. No more rape, no more slavery, we can work together.''

"Thou wilt not share power,'' Vanimórë whispered. "I know thee."

''Other things then.'' Long fingered hands delved into his damp hair, he felt his cloak fall, was drawn against his fathers body. Lips touched his neck and he let his head fall back, because in this touch there was no pain.

_I wanted to be loved. _ he thought, in the empty blackness, watching himself so long ago.

His tunic came off, his breeches, his boots, he felt hot, firm muscle against his own, and arched toward the touches which burned and roused, and were not cruel.

''I made thee so beautiful,'' Sauron whispered, entering him, and felt the response. Vanimórë was desperate to be loved, and felt no shame in submitting to his own father if by that he would receive it.

_ I needed, as Elgalad needs. _

''So what will it be, Vanimórë?'' Fingers ran down his spine. ''I will give thee command of mine armies, thou wilt have power, cities under thy hand, riches, all that thou dost desire. Everything.''

''Thou didst give me to Melkor.'' He had struck Sauron across the face, putting all his hate, his anguish behind the blow.

''Thou hast chosen," his father said, bleeding from the mouth. "So be it.''

~~

_We tempered thee as as a smith makes the finest sword, with heat and hammer blows. If thou hadst acquiesced then, thou wouldst have proved thyself a tool too weak. It is in thy blood, my son. Thou wilt open the door for Melkor's return, help him through the doors of Night when the Powers grow weary at the End of Days._

Horror froze Vanimórë's soul, and then his thought blazed forth like fire from a dragon's throat.  
_**Never. **Thou canst not use me. I will not return to Arda. I will not fight this Darkness. Better that it swallow me that I act as thy tool! _

_So be it._ The voice became two, one out of the past, one close beside him and present. _Then thou wilt never see anything again and Elgalad will die or forget thee and turn to another. _

_ Meluion...forgive me. _ His mind voice was muted now, he did not know how long he had been here, what time had passed. There _was_ no time, the blackness was eternal, it had no beginning and no end.

_So much love to give... so much passion. Others are not afraid to taste it. _

He felt as if long Ages had passed when the voice spoke again, it held mockery.  
_Thou art bound to me, and he to thee, canst thou not feel thy Meluion? I can..._

He sought for the face which suddenly burned before him like a torch in a lightless room. He felt the sunburst of ecstasy, the explosion of pleasure. Images reeled through his mind, he struggled with them; they were too shocking, too brilliant after this sinkhole of emptiness.

_Elgalad?_

he wrestled the visions into order in his mind and was stunned. He felt rapture, glory, passion, need...guilt....

Fury rushed out from the core of him. He burned like a dark star, one lone and raging star in eternity. She drank it, absorbed it, but his rage poured forth unstoppable and titanic. It sent rays of purple light into the well of Nothing and he realized he could see, for the first time in what seemed a thousand years. The light streamed from his fingers as he lifted them.

_Thou wilt need us,_ Sauron said. _ Open thy mind. _

_Come, then ! _ Vanimórë let down his barriers, and his soul took them in. His eyes shone. He reached out and pulled the ink-black toward him.

_Come here, **Ungoliant.** _ And he smiled. ~

  
~~~

  


  
**  
Chapter End Notes:  
**  


  


Fos Almir - The Bath of Flame  
The time line of this post is extremely fluid. There is no sense of time where Vanimórë is. In * real time * it could be weeks even months that he is there.

  



	66. Love And Loss

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
~ "Glorfindel?" Elgalad whispered, when there was no answer to his question. He looked around desperately, saw with relief, Khanad, a bruise flowering on his brow. The prince still gripped the sword, his eyes looked dazed, as if he were waking from nightmare-haunted sleep.

The sun showed as a pallid round globe. She was sinking now but, as a breeze lifted from the ocean, shredding the fog to writhing gossamer, she was still strong enough to flood the isle with light. Yet it seemed a dim candle flame beside the blaze that Glorfindel had been.

It was a barren place, more deathly, more lifeless, now that it could be clearly seen. It was made of rock and of bones Elgalad realized, thousands which had crumbled over the years, fresher dessicated corpses patched with decay, sucked dry from within. One screaming head lay near his foot. He looked away.

_My Lord?_

Nothing answered him, he looked around. The island was not large, but its center was crowned by a high jumble of crags and he could not see what lay beyond.

"Is...it gone?" Khanad's voice stopped him.

"Yes, it is gone for this time and will never return here." Glorfindel spoke. The prince blinked at him, shook his head in amazement.

"I will go to the ship." Something light, alive was breaking into the his face, as if he had come through a deadly illness to find himself well. "Holy Gods, I thought I would die this day ! Who are you..lord?" His tone held awe. " A friend of Vanimórë's?"

"A friend, and an equal. In a way, we are brothers," Glorfindel replied.

"Where _is_ he?" Khanad asked, "That thing did not..?"

"No. He will come back. I dealt with one manifestation of the Dark, and now he deals with another." Glorfindel saw Elgalad's expression, and his hands tightened on the braced shoulders. "Thy lady awaits thee on the ship, Prince Khanad, thou shouldst go to her."

Khanad cast them a last, long glance. "I did not trust him. Trust was not what I was taught. I am sorry." He turned and ran lightly down toward the shore.

~~~

"What happened?" Aiana cried as Khanad pulled himself up by the mooring chain and dropped onto the deck. She flung herself at him, caring nothing that he was soaked to the skin, her fingers went to his face, and she saw something in his eyes which would linger forever.

"There was darkness..." He shook his head. "And then..." he kissed her. "There was light." He did not wish to speak of what he had seen, perhaps not ever, it lay like a black hollow in his heart.

"The others are coming." He seized her lips in a kiss again. "My love, I am not certain what happened, but I thought to die this day, and all I can think is that I am alive. And that there are still matters to attend to in the city." His eyes turned to the beach. "He is gone. Vanimórë."

"Dead?" She whispered. "And Elgalad?"

"Not dead. And Elgalad is coming. An Elf appeared on the isle, like the sun. He said Vanimórë is not dead."

"What now, Sire?" Aiana asked, turning away her eyes from the island which looked as lifeless as an ancient grave.

"Now, we make some changes," Khanad said grimly. "I did not truly believe in the gods, but if gods did not act here, I know not what did."

~~~

Elgalad pulled away, and Glorfindel released him, watching as he ran to the midpoint of the island.

"Where _is_ he?" Tindómion asked softly.

"He has gone into Night," Glorfindel replied.

Elgalad flung himself up a steep, shattered incline of boulders, and stopped as he saw a gaping cave mouth. It was huge, but almost invisible unless one was close. The webbing which hung over seemed to fray into a void. The stench which breathed from the opening caused him to gag, raise his forearm to his mouth.

"My Lord?" _ Please answer me ! _

Vanimórë was close; the thickness of a shadow away, and as far as the most distant stars...

Elgalad stepped into the cave almost dreading what he might see. His foot crunched bone and his heart leaped into his throat, but though he edged his way about the lair, he found nothing. Yet he thought he caught that rich, exotic perfume which clung ever to Vanimórë's hair and flesh...

"Thou wert h-here..."

He groped with his hands, touching only the cold, slimed walls. There was no-one here, but...

But there had been.

At last, with a gasp he broke back through the shredded webbing, into the long, rich evening light.

"Where art th-thou?" he cried, his voice echoing from the grim rocks. He jumped to the ridge and a mile away, the ocean gleamed gold and blue under the late sun. Shading his eyes he scanned the isle in rising panic, but there was no voice in his mind, no sense of Vanimórë's presence anywhere.

_No..._Blasted by grief, he fell to his knees. _ I am with thee, my lord! _ Raising his head, he shouted: "I am with th-thee ! Hear me !"

"Elgalad," Glorfindel came to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Come."

"Where is h-he?"

After a moment's pause Glorfindel said gently: "He had to go into her darkness to fight her."

Elgalad stared at him in absolute horror.

~~~

It was with grave hearts that they climbed aboard the Black Ship and rowed away, Glorfindel turning back to look at the island. Behind him, Tindómion had an arm around Elgalad's shoulders and as they watched, golden flame ripped across the barren place. Nothing would ever live there again, and it would ever hold memories of darkness, but at least the sun would shine upon it. The evil would become memory and legend.

_Vanimórë. I have faith in thee and look for thy return. I know thy strength so do not disappoint me ! We will take Elgalad with us and watch over him until then._ ~

~~~


	67. It Shall End In Fire

 

(Written by Anwyn)

~ Light burst and danced before her vision as with a groan, Anwyn’s hand’s flew to her head and buried themselves in her hair. Pain erupted through her skull, bile forced itself into her throat, and she curled in upon herself, as the moments of agony slowly crept past and the pain began to subside. Her ragged breathing lessened and she uncurled herself from the tight ball she had drawn herself into. Confusion mingled with fear as she recognized the emir’s Chambers. Fresh terror coursed through her; she had not been called here for some weeks, and only vaguely could she recall what lead to her to being here now. The sharp, thudding pain returned once more with such ferocity she clutched at her sides as sickness rose in her.

For a long moment she was still, desperately fighting to collect herself and her eyes fixed upon a blade that had been left upon the bed. Its hilt was encrusted with gems, and Anwyn knew she had seen it before even if she could not immediately place who it belonged too. It seemed casually left, just within reach of where she lay and in it was a dark, open invitation to take her own life should she wish, spare herself the agony and shame that were about to fall on her. She reached out, carefully picking up the weapon as though it were a snake waiting to strike and turned it over - the heavy embellishments on the hilt made it feel ungainly and poorly balanced in her hand but the steel glinted. It had been honed to a lethal edge.  
She wound her fingers around the hilt and tightened them, then drew the blade against her breast and bowed her head.

And she waited.

~~~

Fear ran rampant amongst the crowds who fought to leave the great coliseum. There was a crush of bodies, and those who fell were trampled, crushed by feet of rich and poor alike who flooded through the doors. The heavy cloud of dust made it impossible to see, which only added to the panic. Guards abandoned their posts, some fleeing while others weakly tried to gain some semblance of control.

It was in this wild crush that Elphir slipped away. The doors where the slaves were kept had been knocked from their hinges as most of the arena had collapsed and he allowed himself to become lost amidst the throng. Many ran towards their homes, others to places of worship, while some merely ran to put as much as distance between themselves and the arena as was possible. The Prince of Dol Amroth had no home to return to, and while his heart was heavy with doubt of what he might find, he continued on at a run towards the palace to confront the one who had taken his wife.

~~~

Darkness fell. The song of the night birds had begun to reach Anwyn from the gardens below, as Taraluk swept into the chambers. In the shadow that concealed her she tensed and drew back further. Eyes wide and wild, teeth bared and breathing heavily Taraluk resembled a rabid dog.

Fighting back the sob that threatened to tear itself free of her throat Anwyn drew back further, though she knew she could only hide within the folds of the heavy curtains for a brief time.

Behind Taraluk there was a thin column of light, the door behind him was slightly ajar, beyond was the hallway, the great stair case, the doors, freedom…It was the smallest hope but the promise of freedom proved to be a far greater temptation than Anwyn could resist and gathering herself she flung from her hiding place, throwing herself toward the door and past the Emir even before her feet had struck the floor.

So short the distance seemed, yet also too great, and some small part of her had warned she would not make it, though perhaps it was her Rohirrim blood which had ignored the warning. The door slammed shut, the sound echoing off the walls; it was a sound of finality, that there was no escaping the Emir. Already Taraluk was furious, he had been forced to send his most favored Death Warrior to the isle with his golden pet, he would not allow another possession to slip through his fingers. Dragging her back towards the bed, the Emir hurled Anwyn upon it and even as she raised her arms to defend herself he was upon her.

She fought wildly, twisting her body and striking, yet, despite her efforts the Emir caught both her hands, forcing them above her head. She could feel the press of his erection against her; her struggle had only inflamed him further, and he forced her legs apart, his sour breath pouring onto her face.

Madness spawned more madness. Anwyn’s thoughts had flown from her in her fear, and she acted instinctively, drawing up a knee, catching the Emir in his groin. The long howl of pain was followed by a string of foul curses. His hands fell away from her own and went to hold him protectively. For a moment he lay in curled in upon himself in agony.

Gathering what remained of her strength, Anwyn pushed him away and began to crawl, but a hand snaked out and clamped around her ankle. Anwyn kicked out, but was dragged back still thrashing. Pink spittle flew from the Emir’s lip’s as Anwyn’s foot collided solidly with his jaw, but it seemed a hopeless struggle for the greater his anger the stronger the Emir grew. Another aimed kick missed the Emir and knocked an oil lamp to the ground, the oil spilling out and the flame flickering dangerously downwards.

Anwyn twisted her body and turned, and before she knew she had moved she sprung forward and straddled the Emir’s chest. The blade flashed from where it had waited, concealed within the depths of her robes and the point plunged downwards.

With a terrible crimson gush, Taraluk’s throat was cut, and the warm arterial spray of blood drenched her, running down her face and lips and streaking her pale hair crimson. The death, while terrible, was a far swifter one than Taraluk deserved and for a moment Anwyn felt nothing but hollow shock as she drew trembling hands from the blade she had driven so deep into the man’s throat that the hilt remained upright. With a terrible cry she then flung herself away from him, horrified at what she had done, drenched with the blood of a tyrant.

She was engulfed in heat, and glanced behind her to see flames climbing the silk sheets onto the bed, up the heavy curtain’s: a fire started by the lamp she had sent crashing to the floor. Hungrily it rushed towards her and she threw herself from the bed.

The flames lapped at the now still form of Taraluk, glinting in his sightless eyes. The hangings of the bed bloomed like fire flowers and their petals reined down upon her as a dark snow. She whirled and ran towards the heavy doors. It came as a no great surprise to her that they were locked. She screamed and her fists pounded against them.

The air about her was growing heavy with smoke, her eyes burned and she could not draw enough breath into her chest. She could faintly make out the doors that lead out onto the balcony and she rushed across the room. The doors flew open as she crashed against them and she staggered out into the night gasping for breath. White smoke coiled through the door behind her, billowing upwards into the dark sky. Clutching the stone that walled in the balcony, Anwyn took in the distance to the ground and deemed it far too far to jump - at least with any any hope of surviving the fall.

Coming about, she sharply halted in mid-step. Amidst the dancing flames she saw a woman dressed in light robes who stood untouched by the fire. Long dark hair fell to her hips and the eyes were serene, the expression calm as she looked upon Anwyn. She seemed somehow familiar, yet Anwyn knew she had never seen this woman before.

In Rohan, she had been raised to know not only tales of great battles and warriors, but also other myths that had been told by the light of fires, tales that went beck ere the coming of her people to the lands of Calenhardon: of spirits whose souls lingered on beyond death. Whether this was truly a spirit or simply a creation of her own mind's fear and shock she did not know, but when the woman smiled and reached out both arms, as a mother might summon a child _Come._ Anwyn answered the call.

The wild heat scorched her flesh. She ran blindly until the tips of her fingers told her that she had once again reached the chamber doors. Banging her fists against the wood she screamed. The fabric of her gown and the tips of her hair were singed, she felt the press of the heat on her back and knew within moments the fire would fully be upon her.

The doors swung upon, and she toppled unceremoniously through them, falling on her knees. She heaved and coughed, fighting for breath even as her head whipped around to look into the fire. The strange woman still stood there, and the flames could be seen shimmering _through_ her body as if she were made of gossamer silk. The beautiful dark eyes held both a smile and a quiet sadness and in that brief moment Anwyn thought of Khanad's eyes, the flames leapt higher and the woman was gone.

Coughing furiously, Anwyn felt herself being pulled up. She was drawn close against a hard body an strong arms wrapped around her. She could hear the steady rhythm of a beating heart which she knew so well and it was the greatest music she would ever live to hear .

“Elphir!” she gasped, through another fit of coughing.

“Anwyn, By the Gods, what has happened!” Elphir demanded even as he drew her closer, and she gasped for breath, weakly striving to push him away, It did little to help the already crushing weight within her chest.

“What has happened?” The shouted exclamation matched that of Elphir’s and they both turned as a small group of guard’s ran into view. Elphir’s arms tightened reflectively about her, but the soldiers weapons were still sheathed. Their eyes were fixed upon the doors to the Emirs chambers under which heavy smoke had begun to insidiously creep out from the small gap beneath, billowing into the corridor.

One threw himself forward to throw open the doors but Elphir stepped before the soldier.

“A fire burns within.”  
The man quickly jerked his hand away and all gazes were turned towards Elphir, then moved quickly to Anwyn whose white robes were stained with blood.

“Who are you? What has happened to our lord?”

“He is dead.” It was Anwyn who spoke, her voice raspy and coarse. The short words forced her into another bout of coughing which wracked her entire body.

“You lie!” But the soldier faltered, for the blood that stained her hands and skin, her clothes which were now singed black at the hems spoke for her.

“I killed him,” she rasped, fighting to draw a full breath into her chest.

“Fool! You do not know what you have done!” A solider cried, the words punctuated by the ring of steel as swords were drawn and leveled towards her. “His death shall anger the Lady of the Isle who shall send plague upon us! You have killed us all!”

Elphir stepped forward leveling his own sword in challenge, and pushing Anwyn behind him. Smoke was thick about them now, causing the air to grow heavy and their eyes to water and burn.

“The palace burns!” One soldier cried backing away.  
“Fire cannot burn through stone, fool!” Another refuted sharply.  
“Though it may take all else,” a third answered grimly. “There is only death here, Come, if the Emir is dead…Then let him burn in the flames! We must get all from the Palace whilst we may!”

Anwyn had not heard them; her gaze was fixed unwavering upon a figure who stood near the head of the staircase – the woman whom had guided her from the flames waited, and Anwyn tore herself from Elphir’s arms and started towards her.

“Wait!” she called, even as the woman turned and began to descend the stairs, and Anwyn followed, lifting her skirts. She heard Elphir call to her but did not heed him. Moments ago she had been so near to death that now she was beyond fear. The woman did not slow, or seem to hear her, but reaching the bottom of the steps she swept soundlessly into the chambers below the Emir's.

Anwyn followed. She could scarcely breathe and her body cried for rest, but she pushed herself, burst into the room and took in the unfolding scene before her in a moments glance.

Gthar lay upon the floor, clutching a short, bloodied dagger.

It had been some time since Anwyn had seen the personal guard of the Prince and the bandages he wore told her that he had been recently hurt. He looked pale and terribly weak, yet at the moment that was the very least of his troubles.

Nothtar loomed above him, clutching a long wicked blade, “Old dog!” he spat down upon the prone figure “…Do you not know simply when to lay down and die?” He lifted the blade high above his head “No? Then I have chosen your time.”

A vase flew through the air connecting with the back of the man’s skull who staggered as it shattered into a thousand pieces. A long string of profanities escaped the Spy-master's lips and he whirled. A goblet missed his head and Anwyn reached for another weapon, crying: “Do not touch him!”

The words rang off the high ceiling as she drew back her arm and threw the second goblet. It glanced off Nothtar’s temple before falling to the floor and smashing. The man could only gape for a stunned moment at the woman whom should surely have been dead by now. Seeing the stained clothes he felt only a dark delight. At last the emir was dead, must be dead! At last! It had been an impossible gamble, that this woman would succeed where so many others had failed.

Anwyn was no longer looking at him; all her attention was upon Gthar, who was pushing himself painfully to his feet behind the Spy-master. A determined light shone in Gthar’s eyes as the dagger he held found it's mark deep in Nothtar’s turned back. The spy master howled and lurched forward, reaching backwards in vain to grasp the dagger's hilt.

Gthar began to fall, his strength utterly spent and Anwyn, seizing her chance, darted forward and drew his arm across her shoulder, steadying him. At that moment, Nothtar screamed and twisted around, clutching the bloodied dagger which had been embedded in his back.

“No more!” he hissed from behind clenched teeth, spittle flying as he lurched towards Anwyn who was fighting to support Gthar. She stared at him with steely contempt, utterly unafraid.

“What have you to say before I send you into the darkness?”

“Only this,” Anwyn replied raising her free hand to gesture. “Have you met my husband?”

Elphir whirled upon the ball of his foot, his blade cutting through the air as Nothtar began to turn. His head bounced once against the hard marble floor and rolled, coming to a rest looking out into the gardens. Elphir quickly sheathed his weapon and rushed forward to aid his wife in taking Gthar's other arm, helping him back to sit upon the edge of the couch. Anwyn felt him grow tense, as though he were about to resist.

“Steady, you are hurt.”  
Gthar gave her a strange look, though no longer was it tinged with mistrust and hate. It was, she thought, a start. He was injured but his eyes held a pain that was not of his body and Anwyn felt a stab of sadness as she realized that he mourned for Khanad. There was a pang of guilt within her, though she pushed it away for now, they had to leave ere the guards return.

“We must go.” She turned to Elphir who merely nodded his agreement, already both their minds had sprung to the next step.

“Can you walk?” she asked urgently of Gthar whose jaw set. He shook his head.

“Leave me.”

Anwyn had expected no less a response from the old soldier.  
“No,” she said firmly even as she saw Gthar gathering himself to resist Elphir. “There has been enough death this day.” ~

~~~

  



	68. From Shadow Into Light

  
~ No Black Ship had ever returned from the island with all its cargo.

The dark jetty was empty; Nothtar's men had been called up to their master in the palace. The tunnels, lit here and there by torches, were silent, and although Khanad was now experiencing the nauseous effects of shock, he ran.

Coming at last to double doors, he opened them, stepping swiftly aside, but no movement or sound came from without, and the stairs which rose beyond were empty. From another set of doors at the top, came a faint sound. He kicked them open, behind him, the Elves were so silent that had he not glanced back, he might have thought that he and Aiana were alone.

''What is happening?'' he wondered, as he passed cell doors, a guard room, which was empty, and finally a long hall which lead to Nothtar's chambers.

The Elf with the bronze hair spoke, his voice melodic and rich.  
''The ruler went mad and the great statue in the arena fell. Who knows what thou wilt find?''

"Vanimórë lost his temper for a moment," Glorfindel murmured. "He does enjoy dramatic gestures."

They heard screams and running feet in the distance. There was the scent of smoke on the air and shouted orders. Coming to a wide hall, they heard a voice shout, ''Get them out, then fall back!''

''Cartha !'' the prince cried, and saw a tall guard at the foot of a flight of steps turn suddenly, like a hound to its masters whistle.

''Sire !'' His jaw almost dropped, disbelief on his begrimed face, and bellowed, ''To me, men! Our prince is alive !''

Soldiers appeared, converging on the small group.

''Gods, you live, my lord!'' Zochana spoke from the back. "How..?"

''The thing on the isle is gone,'' Khanad told them. ''Believe me, for I saw it, saw what it was my father has sent tribute to all these years. This one,'' he gestured to the radiant Glorfindel.'' He appeared and battled her, and she is gone. And Vanimórë," he paused. "pursued her into the dark."

There was a moment of weighted silence, as if this were so momentous, so unbelievable, that none could comprehend it.

''But were you not the one who died?'' Cartha asked as he stared at the golden Elf, whose smile seemed to hold, for a moment, the same elusive self-mockery as Vanimórë's. When he received no other answer he repeated, ''Gone?'' His shoulders squared and he said, as an officer reporting to his general: ''My Prince. The emir is dead.''

If he expected anger or surprise at this announcement, it was not forthcoming. Khanad looked at the soldier's faces.  
''Which of you killed him?'' he asked.

''None of us, my lord, it was the Northblood woman. There was fire in his rooms and she only barely escaped, her robes were covered in his blood. She stabbed him, I think.''

''I must thank her, for that task would have fallen to me and fratricide does sit ill with me, as yet. The palace is on fire?'' Khanad's voice took on the unmistakable inflections of authority.

''It may not spread far, all is stone after all, we have organized bucket chains. But his chambers, aye.''

''Is every-one out?''

''They are now.'' It was a voice with a foreign accent, clear and haughty and looking around they saw Elphir, with Anwyn beside him. Khanad bowed with deep respect, then his eyes moved to the man Elphir carried, the bandages on his torso showing fresh red where the wounds had opened.

''Gthar.'' He strode across and reached out his hand.

''Nothtar tried to kill him,'' Elphir said. "That snake too, is dead. Shall we leave, lord Prince?''

The gardens of the north wing of the palace were quiet although around them the roar of the city's panic sounded like thunder from the inland hills. Elphir lay Gthar down, the soldiers ranged themselves opposite the Elves. Aiana dipped water from a fountain and knelt beside the wounded man.

''I thought your damned romantical nature had done for you this time, my prince.'' Gthar drank and laid his head back, there was pain in his eyes but peace also and a world of relief.

''It almost did old friend,'' Khanad murmured. ''I saw... Forgive me, but when Vanimórë told me I would see things no man should see, I did not understand. I wish to bury that place very deep in my mind.'' He looked at the Elves, for a moment, then said: ''He is gone: Vanimórë.''

''Dead?''

''No. So they say, and should surely know. Just...gone. It was so dark...so...'' The prince shook his head. ''I will speak no more of it now...an island of death; it was made of corpses.''

''I feared him," Gthar murmured. "I mistrusted him.''

''So did I."

''You will take the throne?"

Khanad nodded. ''Tanith is going to change, my friend.''

''Good.'' Gthar sounded satisfied, but there was something in his eyes which brought a frown to the younger man's brow.

''Are you in pain?''

''It will pass. No, not that. You feel naught for his death, do you?''

Slowly, the Prince shook his head. ''Father or no, he was lost to corruption and madness long ago. I feel only shame that his blood runs in me, and I will ever fight to make sure his insanity does not claim me.''

''It will not.'' Gthar said flatly. ''When I lay – as I thought, dying – Vanimórë told me something which I long wished to believe...'' He hesitated, coughed a little.  
''You are not Taraluk's son, you are mine.''

Khanad sat back on his heels.

_''What?!''_

''You know I loved your mother, and she loved me. But she held to her duty as Prime Concubine, knew she had to produce a son. Much good she did in all the ways she could, while she was favored, but I would have fled with her, forsaking and risking everything.  
One year, I acted as her escort to the summer place in the Baashi Hills, a swift storm came down upon us.'' His eyes went back in time, a soft smile of memory on his face.''In the downpour one of the litter bearers slipped and your mothers palanquin fell. She was tumbled out, one of her slave-women hit her head on the post and was stunned."  
"There was nowhere near to seek shelter and so she asked we camp where we were. She was concerned about the women, and soaked and chilled herself. In the end, I ordered that the two body slaves stay together and I would guard Merelune. She was my charge, after all. It was still raining, the thunder was almost constant and I ordered the guards go to their tents. I was trusted. Her women slept and she called me, asking how they did and when we might go on. We spoke a while, and then..."

''Gods, you slept with her?'' Khanad whispered, awestruck, for had Gthar been found , both he and Merelune would have suffered traitors deaths, which in Tanith, meant the isle.

''We were young and we loved. It was only that one time. It was a few brief hours and eternity to me. But she was Taraluk's favored in those days, poor lady, and when she was breeding I thought it must surely be his child. I always saw much of her in you. It was only a fools dream that I had fathered you. Or so I thought.''

''But it is true.'' A sense of relief coursed through Khanad's veins. ''I do not look like him, and dear Gods, I always loathed him. You do not know...how _good_ this feels...'' He gripped Gthar's hand. ''Father.''

''No Númenorean blood, eh, my Prince?'' Cartha jested.

''If Taraluk was an example of Númenor, I am pleased I have none, or none worth mentioning.'' Khanad declared, with a shake of his head.

''It was not always as it was at the end.'' Tindómion spoke, and brought a silence to the group. ''I saw them when they came to the aid of Gil-galad in Lindon; mighty men they were, the Sea Kings, stern and tall and valiant. Prince Elphir carries that blood as it should be.''

''And so do you, my prince,'' Gthar added rather gruffly, tiring now. ''I did but jest with thee. There is an old tale in my family, that we were a branch from one of the daughters of Tar-Meneldur, Ailinel, but that is so far back in the mists of time, who knows? But your mother was of ancient and proud line, gracious and lovely. I think your father hated that her family claimed descent from the Sea Kings, and of higher lineage than his own, from cursed Ar-Pharazôn. But it is not the blood in your past which is important, prince, but how it is shown in your deeds."

''He speaks truth, my Lord,'' Cartha interposed respectfully. ''I have ever judged a man by his deeds. We were proud to serve under you as prince, we will take you as our king. And I wish...'' He glanced south. ''I wish I had trusted Vanimórë. He did not spare himself and I think we will not see him again.''

''He will come back, that one, I would wager all my wealth on it.'' Khanad raised a hand in warning, glancing at Elgalad's blanched face.

''Of which you have none, it was all claimed by the Emir my lord,'' Aiana said slyly, trying to turn the conversation away from the absent Vanimórë for Elgalad's sake.

''But there seems to be a vacant throne, and so I claim all that goes with that and all royal prerogatives.'' Khanad winked at her, understanding what she did. ''Which includes...you.''

The girl's mouth opened and a blush suffused her cheeks but she suddenly realized that Khanad would indeed be king, and their brief love might be now smothered under his new duties and all protocols attached to it.

''Do not worry,'' he reassured her gently. ''I owe you my sanity.'' He took her hand and kissed it, a gallant gesture at which the soldiers stared, but the Elves smiled. ''Did you not hear my father speaking about deeds and not bloodline? Cartha, have a message sent to the garrison, the city is in uproar and where is the damned army? Playing knuckle-bones?''

''They did not turn out, my lord, in protest at your death – supposed death. They have closed their gates.''

''Well tell them their king wants them out on the streets and restoring order.''

''With great pleasure, sire, and they will be delighted to obey.'' Cartha saluted and strode away.

''I could use a cup of wine,'' Khanad muttered as he looked, sadly at the silent figure of Elgalad. ''Will he be all right?''

''When Vanimórë returns,'' Glorfindel replied quietly.

''And will he?''

''He cannot die. He is, in effect, a god.''

''And are you, sir?'' The young man ran his free hand through his head in bemusement.

"I was born an Elf. I now have power as does Vanimórë, but that need not trouble thee, Khanad. Thou hast much to do now.''

"Yes." The prince murmured. "What was it, that thing?''

''Her name, of old was Ungoliant. And what she is cannot be destroyed, for it is said she was born of the darkness which was before Arda was made.'' Glorfindel frowned, and his eyes became distant for a moment. ''She will not return here and nothing will live on that isle again. But look at it, king, and remember it. Memory has it's purpose.''

''It is not being able to forget that I will have the problem with,'' Khanad remarked, and shrugged off a shiver.

''Some things should not be forgotten, but thy joy and the sun will seem all the brighter for that, I promise thee.''

The young man considered this and then nodded.  
''Yes, I see that, I felt my life had begun anew when I saw the sun, even there...''

''Thou art a brave man, thy name should be among those of the Edain of old, for no Elf or Man has faced Ungwë Lianti and lived, I think.'' Glorfindel extended his hand. ''Live well, Khanad of the line of Elros Eärendilion.'' At the prince's startled expression, he smiled. ''If thou art of that blood indeed, then thou art descended from the first King of Númenor, as Elessar Telcontar, of the High Kingdom. Thou wouldst do well to approach him in friendship for his rule will be a great and long one. As will thine.''

Khanad, still looking faintly stunned bowed. ''And where do you go, now, lord?''

''Back to our home.''

''Will we see you again?''

''I think not, Khanad. The Elder Race and Men should not so mingle, but our friendship is ever thine. As for Vanimórë...his power is meant to be hidden, but it is there. Do not forget he is a Power. ''

''He will come back here, do you think?''

Glorfindel thought of Tanith poised like a sword facing north, to the states and nations of the Harad and he nodded.

''I know he will,'' he said. ~

~~~


	69. A Space To Give Thanks

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ Reunited once more with Elphir, Anwyn prayed that it would remain this way. Her mind hazed with shock as it sought to shift through all that had transpired, to form it into something she could understand. Now in her rightful place at her husband's side, she remained thus as Gthar limped his way past them, stumbled and nearly fell. He did not resist Elphir who had carried him towards safety with Anwyn following closely, wishing that she possessed some of the skills of her mother as a healer. It was imperative, however, that they left those rooms and moved away from the fire that blazed above.

Anwyn did not wish to dwell upon what she had done; she knew that if she had not killed Taraluk, some-one else surely would have, yet she felt a strange disquiet. In a sense she had planned to gain her freedom by any means. Yet she had taken a life, even one so twisted, and she could not simply shrug it away.

Elphir had killed Nothtar before her eyes, quickly, neatly and without malice; he had not flinched at what he had done, and Anwyn was somewhat envious that she could not feel as detached. She did not grieve for Nothtar, certainly. The Spy-master had served himself alone, and his designs, like his fallen lord, had been dark ones.

A group had gathered ahead of them, and Elphir quickened his pace. Anwyn found her own step faltering as she saw guards she recognized.

“I do not believe it,” she murmured. Elphir paused slightly and turned towards her.  
“I see it with mine own eyes and yet…” Her voice trailed off and she hurried forward once more.  
_Elves._  
It had always seemed to her that both Vanimórë and Elgalad had stood out as two diamonds amongst coal, and yet here now were several more and their presence filled the space about them. It was a moment she felt certain she would remember for the rest of her days.

That shock was joined by joy as she saw Khanad, filthy and bruised but otherwise seemingly unharmed, come forth and greet Gthar. Anwyn had come to realize the importance of Gthar to the young prince and was only too glad that she had played some part in this reunion. Khanad had risked much to find Elphir. She scarcely knew how to react as he bowed respectfully before her, for she had murdered his father.  
Yet she came to know that more than love and duty bound Gthar to Khanad and was moved by Gthar’s tale of a love that was too short-lived but deep and sweet. Khanad was his son, and conceived in love, and she saw the relief in the prince's eyes, knowing that he was not the emir's get.

Elphir locked his arms about her for a moment, and she understood that through marriage she had gained another family which to cherish. At times she had felt selfish to want to know more of her own history, yet the feeling that there was still a part of her she did not yet know of and yearned to discover, had never lessened. Her mother had answered every question Anwyn asked of her save the most important. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind, something to be dealt with at a better time.

A broad smile curved her mouth as she saw Khanad kiss the young woman's hand, and she exchanged a quick glance with Elphir for both knew the gesture conveyed something far deeper than courtesy. But the smile faded as she learned what had become of Vanimórë. She had wondered why he had not returned with the others, but was not overly concerned for she was certain he would return when it suited him to do so. A stab of concern pricked her however, as her eyes flickered over Elgalad.

“We shall also return to our home,” Elphir murmured softly as he pressed a gentle kiss to her brow and Anwyn was drawn back from her silent introspection. She thought of a green land yielding to the sea where many proud white ships with high white masts prowled across open waters. Wordlessly she nodded her agreement. She wanted to leave Tanith, although the realm would change and flourish under the hand of Khanad.

When Elphir gazed at her, his eyes held more love and trust than she had never seen. Still, there was much she must somehow bring herself to tell him of; there must be no lies between them.

At the moment there was no quiet to be found in any part of the city. Many had taken to the streets and started toward the palace. The numbers were simply too great for the Palace guard to contain, panic was fueling disorder. These were not Anwyn's lands, nor were these her people for she had ever felt a stranger amongst them. But now that the darkness was beginning to fall away, and those who were truly good-hearted coming forth, she saw that perhaps she had for too long been blinded by the actions of Taraluk and his supporters. She could understand these people, she realized. They were not so different to her, but fear had bound them on their knees and now that it was broken they could rise and lift their faces to the sky. ~

~~~


	70. The Beginning Of The Storm

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

The servants stepped back, Khanad nodded a dismissal and crooked a brow toward Gthar, who was sitting back upon a couch piled high with cushions. There was more color in his face now, and the physicians reported that he was healing well but needed rest. Today that rest would be enforced by his being carried on a palanquin, much to the his disgust. But, his son had stated, it was either that or he must remain here and not for all Arda would Gthar miss the crowning of the new King.

It would be a break from ancient tradition from the start. Khanad had lodged the night before in the home of General Kariss at the garrison and would ride through Tanith. Before this, any who wished to see the ruler must climb the hill to the palace and hope to glimpse him going to hunt or being carried to the arena. The Emir had not gone among his people, but Khanad would ride through the city to the arena. This was still massively damaged from the fall of the statue, but mason's had assured Khanad it had been made safe and those who wished might see him crowned there before he removed to the palace.

Taraluk's rooms had been gutted by the fire which raged the night of his death, but even had they been whole, Khanad had no desire to inhabit them. He had taken the older west wing for his private chambers.

The days since his return had been filled with preparation. The nobles had flocked to him assuring him of their loyalty, and he smiled grimly, knowing that not one of them had spoken up when he had been arrested. But they could not be blamed, they had families also. Time would tell. Appointments would be made and would be subject to change as he settled into his rule.

The crowning itself had been arranged in a hurry, for Khanad wished Elphir and Anwyn to be here. He had ordered his own private ship sail them back to Dol Amroth, and they would carry letters to Prince Imrahil and also King Elessar. Khanad had taken the words of the golden Elf seriously. Tanith might be very remote from those northern realms, but that did not mean a relationship could not be established.  
In a flurry of quill strokes, as candles burned, the prince went through official documents and struck through everything pertaining to 'God-King' 'Most High' or 'Emir' he would take the title of King.

Now, a compliment of Royal Guards waited to lead his escort and Gthar rose carefully from his seat. Beside him, and supporting him without seeming to, Aiana, in violet and blue, sapphires glinting, looked at her lover in awe.  
_If_ he was her lover now. Certainly he had given her private chambers, not put her among the seraglio women and she was served as if she were a princess, but in the roar of preparation, they had hardly spoken. He had her brought to his rooms, where Gthar also sat, who attempted to teach her _ Tar _ while Khanad, head bent over a great desk, worked on a pile of documents.

But her heart leaped as she let her eyes linger on him. He looked a warrior-king, his tunic, breeches and boots, more resembled the attire of the Elves than the voluminous robes Taraluk and his court had favored. The materials and cut were superb, but without ostentation and showed his tall form to great advantage. His eyes were very bright.

She made a low reverence and backed away, only halting when he hand came out and caught her arm.  
''Where are you going? Ride with my father.''

''But it is not fitting, Sire.'' She was startled, and her head jerked up.

''You are my _favoured._'' She would almost have wagered the very fine gems she wore that there was a laugh in his words. ''I wish every-one to know that.'' His hand came under her chin and then he kissed her. ''Would you miss my crowning, lady?''

''No!'' She gasped through tears and laughter. ''Oh no, sire!''

She sat on the palanquin, carried above the heads of a roaring crowd as petals, ribbons and fragrant herbs were tossed into the path of the horses. People hung from windows, climbed onto flat roofs, jostled and reached forward, waving and calling out Khanad's name. It was as noisy as the crowds of the arena, but there was a different quality to this, and not the least of it was relief. The talk of Gods and Goddesses on the island, in Tanith, was too large to be grasped by many, but they knew that She was gone. The island now lay bare and empty under the sun and not a few had spat in its direction, then cursed and wept for people lost. But She was gone, the emir was dead and his much-feared Spy-master, and Khanad, who had ever been popular with the people and the army, was about to be crowned their King.

Aiana was overwhelmed. As she looked out over the bay remembering the desperate – and, in retrospect, oddly sweet – days in the lightless prison, she held an arm protectively against her belly, and jumped when Gthar's hand touched her arm.

''Does he know?''

''My lord?''

''Does he know you carry his child?'' Gthar's eyes crinkled at the corners and Aiana's own rounded.  
''How do you know?''

''Your maids say you have been sick this last week, and asked for ginger and honey tisanes for nausea. I have seen enough breeding women in the palace to know the signs.''

''I hope – but it is early to be sure...'' Then she nodded. ''Yes, lord, I think it is so.''

''Tell him later,'' Gthar leaned back, smiling.

''Will he be very angry?'' she wondered, looking ahead to where the man she loved rode under the sun.

''No,'' his father said firmly. ''He has had other children, you know.''

Aiana's eyes flashed. ''I am sure, sir,'' she responded stiffly. ''You need not tell me I am one of many, I know.''

''Do you know what happened to them?''

She paused and looked at him, frowning, under the veil, ''What happened to them?"

''He was told they died. Taraluk, may he rot in the darkness, had them taken away, disposed of. Some say worse. I never could find out. My son has never held a living child of his own.''

Aiana swayed and felt a firm hand steady her.  
''Oh, Gods..." She felt an overwhelming desire to weep. Her emotions had been unbalanced these last two weeks, swinging from joy to sorrow; often she felt like crying.

''So you see why he will be overjoyed, my dear?''

''I hope so,'' she blinked furiously. ''Even if I am only one among many, I want him to love this one.''

Gthar snorted. ''You will never be one among many! He will have to make an advantageous marriage, you know this, it is his duty, the duty of any King. But you will never be overlooked, Aiana. I promise you that. Khanad has never been in love, and he may not even know he is, but I can see. I could always read him like a scroll.''

~~~

  
The crowd at the arena eventually fell silent as the prince strode to a dais erected on the sand and sat down, his guards at attention about him. The tiers of seating which had not been wrecked by the statue's collapse were filled with a colorful, enthusiastic crowd. Taraluk's great bronze colossus had shattered in three pieces and the gods alone knew how it was going to be moved. Perhaps it should not be, Khanad thought, but remain as a reminder of one mans madness and evil. The arena would be used for Games and training; not for death matches. Never again.

The matter of who would crown the new King had been discussed at length, until Gthar had told him that a holy man, a pilgrim from Chey Sart had arrived in Tanith. This man, it was said, worshiped none but the One and now came to pray at a place which had long had an evil and corrupt reputation, to cleanse the lingering shadows.

''It can do not harm I suppose,'' Khanad said. The Cheyans were an arrogant people who considered themselves superior to the Haradhan nations. They held aloof beyond their mountains, believing culture and civilization were their province alone. None were ever seen in Tanith and an emissary to that land, when the Prince was a youth had returned with such an insulting reply from the Great Khagan that Taraluk had fallen into a fit of wrath.

''What does he wish for it?''

''Nothing, my prince,'' his father said.

''My _Son_.''

''Forgive me, my son. He wants nothing. It might be a good omen to the beginning of your rule. He is a famous holy man in Chey Sart, it is said, a Seer who even their Khagan respects and listen to. Perhaps he may carry a message from yourself to the ruler.''

The man was there now clad in blue; a tall figure in rope soled sandals which had seen much journeying, yet there was an air of authority and stature about him. His hands were long and slender, his neat beard was white, and his eyes were calm.

The crown was new, a simple coronet set with diamonds and one great center stone in the ancient symbol of Tanith, the lions head.

''In the name of the One who is above all, forever, all Powers and Fates, all Doom, all Death, I give you this crown, Khanad, first of that name, King of Tanith. May you rule with wisdom and enlightenment. And may the One witness.''

Khanad bent his head as the crowds erupted into joy and then rose with a smile. He allowed the acclaim to continue for a while before he raised his hands, commanding silence.

''My people!'' he cried. ''We have woken to a new dawn after long years lost to darkness and fear. We have all been slaves here, but now we will lift our heads and embrace freedom and justice. Let no-one fear the shadows at night, nor that their children or husbands, their women or lovers will vanish. The Dark that ruled our lives is gone. I saw it bested. Powers walked among us though we knew them not, let us not forget that legends have been made here. By the bravery of the Lady Anwyn, and Prince Elphir of the Principality of Dol Amroth, a friend of the Re-uniter king, Elessar Telcontar, of whom we have all heard, Taraluk, the Tyrant is dead, Nothtar, his lackey is dead. While we rejoice let us remember the past also, who our saviors were – both Powers and Men – and women also.'' There was a ripple of laughter but it was an approving sound. Then Khanad spread out his hands and the sky seemed to break with the roll of cheering and the chanting of his name.

It was very late when he at last had a moment alone. He knew he should sleep but the thrill of the day, relief, amazement, were as wine to him. He was young and alive, when he thought to be dead. And the golden Elf again had been right, although his mind veered away from thinking of the island and its horror, the darkness seemed to make the everything, life, _living,_ so much more vivid.

There was much to do. Tanith still hummed with celebration, but Khanad did not want to wake heavy headed on his first morning as King. Not that he thought he could, no wine had seemed to touch him this day.

He turned to a servant who was drawing back the silk sheets of his great bed.

''Send for Aiana,'' he said and then gauged the time. ''If she is awake. Then go to your own bed-place. Bring me news of Lord Gthar, I wish to ensure he is comfortable.'' It had been a very long day for both of them, he thought.

The man nodded and passed through the room and the King lifted his circlet from his helm and set it down.

In the dark corner of the room, something moved.

Khanad whirled with a warriors reflexes, reaching for the ceremonial sword he had worn all that day. The blackness was like a hole in time itself, and his heart suddenly plunged like a war horse, for it reminded him of the isle and the dreadful smothering...blankness, the monstrous apparition which had emerged from it. _ Oh Gods..._

Something shone there, like the lights upon a ship moving through sea fog, lambent purple, and then the darkness parted, flowing like water from the one who stepped from it.

Khanad gasped in disbelief as Vanimórë appeared. His eyes were like levelled lances, amethyst jewels in the dimness and for a moment, the young man saw red flame in their depths. There was something about him which hit Khanad with the force of a hammer-blow, stealing his breath. He saw for the first time, the Power there; it was chilling, it was ancient, it was...

The long black lashes hid the eyes for a moment and when they swept up the fathomless purple had returned with the elusive, mocking smile.

"Dost thou," he said, "want a Warlord for thine armies, King Khanad?" ~

~~~

**The End of Dark Lands.**

To be continued in [Dark Blood](http://www.lotrfanfiction.com/viewstory.php?sid=10747)


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